


Unfriendly Lamplight, Unfriendly Night

by basketcasewrites



Series: Write You A Tragedy [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kid Fic, M/M, Past Stony, Slow Burn, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2018-10-25 00:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basketcasewrites/pseuds/basketcasewrites
Summary: Steve had known right from the beginning that raising a child on his own was not going to be easy -- but he also knew that he would never trade Peter in. Not even for the world.But juggling a career, a passion and a family is hard enough without memories from his past haunting him.





	1. Between Despair and Sleeplessness

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the story is from a WB Yeats poem called 'After Long Silence'
> 
>  
> 
> Story itself prompted by these words: If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die

Steve was tired of the life that he led and the implications that came with it. The cliché of struggling writer who had never been able to get a handle over much of his life followed him incessantly. Trailing behind him constantly, refusing to leave him alone like a puppy with its tail between its legs. A puppy who, for a long time had had neither a home nor attention, and insisted on barking out at the most unwelcome of moments.

"What's your occupation?" would come the lightly asked question, the curious glint in the eye of an interested stranger as they waited patiently enough for his answer. The lips curling up into a smile either flirtatious or friendly.

"I'm a writer," he'd say after a slight hesitation.

"Oh, really?" would come the quick reply -- sometimes stunned, sometimes amused. No doubt they wondered whether he was acclaimed or accredited and, if in fact so, why they had never before heard of him. The smiles widening as they would ask, "Anything I could possibly have read?" 

"I doubt it -- I haven't had anything published yet," he said briskly, a smile crinkling the corners of his deep brown eyes, taking the edge off his voice. He ended the statement the same every time, his voice not optimistic or hopeful but firm, as if there were contracts in the works, "But, soon."

"Then, what do you do for a living?" they'd insist, trying to be polite in their pushy questioning. He'd then mention, albeit less enthusiastic, that he were a photographer. Grudgingly answering each question posed to him afterwards.

He rubbed tired fingers over his roughly lined face, his face that had aged tremendously over the past few years, pushing the black thick-framed glasses off the bridge of his slim nose. The glasses dropped from his face, hitting against the pad of lined paper before him with a muffled thud. 

Exhausted, Steve sighed. For days now he had awoken hours before sunrise, sitting in the dim light provided by the lamp. It had become a part of his routine now, altered his internal clock so that often his body woke him before his alarm did. It was a habit he knew would be difficult to break yet was one that he wished he could, for he found the activity pointless; futile in that he would stare at the page mindlessly, unable to write a single worthwhile sentence. 

His despair grew, worsening as each day passed and the firm belief that he would never again write as he once used to rooted itself further in his mind. However much it bothered him -- and it bothered him deeply -- he never could stay in bed for long: rolling out from beneath the covers, he would make the slow trek to the bathroom and then to the small room at the end of the hall that he used as his office. Always peeking into the bedroom across from the office, careful not to wake the little boy buried under the blankets as he checked in on him.

Steve stared down at the top-most page, the writing a blur of black ink. Ideas that had come to him whilst he sat, jotted down in haste in the corners of the page. Sentences that had been scribbled down, rewritten, scratched out completely. 

The soft light from the desk lamp warmly illuminated the table and around the pages in a small circle. Spotlighting, heavily, his lack of work.

A quiet knock came from behind him, a hand hitting timidly against the slightly open door. The hinges creaking -- in need of being oiled -- as the door was pushed forward.

"Dad, you up?" Peter asked quietly, poking his head through the space between the door frame and the door.

"Yeah, kiddo. Come on in," Steve said, waking from his reverie. He lifted his head quickly, covering the pages of the legal pad as the twelve-year old boy entered the small office. His bare-footed steps making hardly a sound as he padded towards Steve.

Unaware of time passing or of much else beyond the enclosure of the room, Steve had not been aware of Peter being awake. Had not heard any of the noise that the boy may have made.

Peter placed the large mug of freshly made black coffee, filled close to the brim, onto the bare table. His hand faltered, a small amount of coffee spilling over the edge and pooling on the desk at the base of the cup. There were no coasters in the room, probably none in the entire house, and coffee rings stained the table-top -- decorating the well-worn wood with a pattern of rustic interlaced circles. Steve breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the powerful earthy scent.

"Thanks, Pete," Steve said, grateful. It always amazed him how capable Peter was, how capable he had become recently. 

"No problem. You look exhausted," Peter observed, eyeing his father critically.

"No more than usual," Steve said with a small smile, taking a sip of the still hot coffee. The steam tickled at his skin, blurred his vision momentarily. He eyed Peter's bird-like frame, equally as critical, "Have you had something to eat yet?"

Peter shook his head slowly, lifting his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, "Nope. I was just gonna have cereal and toast or something."

Steve stood from his cushioned chair, ratted and sunken in from years of use, his body stiff from having sat for so long. He ran a hand through Peter's hair, ruffling the mousy brown hair fondly as he passed him, "You still have about forty five minutes, I'll make us something." 

 

With a bony knuckle Peter nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose, watching his dad seated across from him as he ate the last of his chocolate-syrup drowned pancake.

"Sorry about breakfast, champ," Steve said apologetically, wiping away a dot of maple syrup from his bottom lip. He sprung up from his seat, his body having lost its stiffness while he had worked. Collecting their plates in a small stack he dropped them into the relatively empty sink, only so as to not chip away unseemly at the edges.

"It's okay, Dad. I like pancakes," Peter said, smiling and showcasing a pair of crooked front teeth. His voice was high, reedy and not much different from what Steve's had been at his age. 

Steve looked at his son, taking in the brown hair and even darker brown eyes a complete revolution from his, Steve's, own fair hair and blue eyes -- the two of them could not have looked more unalike, more unrelated. 

"I know you do, champ," Steve said, hitching Peter's backpack over his shoulder -- signalling to Peter that it was time for them to leave. He kept on a straight face, "But they aren't good for you -- too much sugar. Messes with your brain and makes you crazy. Tomorrow I'll make us something really healthy like bacon and eggs."

Steve placed a firm hand on Peter's back, herding him out the front door. 

"Wait! I forgot something!" Peter exclaimed, breaking free from the strong hold and running past Steve before he could lock the door. His quick footed run bringing him back out in moments, clutching a rectangular object to his chest.

Peter smiled up at Steve as he passed him, saying a quick apology, eyes creasing up beneath his glasses much like Tony's had. Steve winced at the recognition, inhaling deeply and steadying his shaking hands. Evidently, it seemed, wounds did not heal with time. Sometimes they festered, growing worse as days passed. Especially if those wounds were constantly picked at and never allowed to heal. 

He opened the drivers side door, shrugging the small backpack off of his muscular shoulder and throwing it haphazardly into the back-seat of the truck. He slipped into the seat beside Peter. 

"Set to go?" Steve asked, adjusting the rear-view mirror. 

"Yep," Peter said, nodding vigorously. His gangly neck seeming as if it were close to snapping. 

"Water? Lunch money? Apple?" he ticked each item on the list off his fingers, waiting for Peter's concurrent nod. "What about a good book? It's the most important meal of the day, you know?" Steve said seriously, leaning over Peter to make sure his seatbelt was in securely. 

"Dad!" Peter said, slightly exasperated as Steve reversed out of the driveway. He giggled in that way of certain children; carefree, as if everything is humorous. "Books are not food! You can't eat them!"

"I bet that Willy Wonka could've made an edible book," Steve said, nodding thoughtfully and indicating with his hand the book that Peter held in his lap against his knees. "Each page would taste different. One would taste like chocolate, another like strawberry-"

"And like mint ice-cream!" Peter cut in excitedly, his eyes widening underneath his glasses at the thought of it.

"One like oranges!"

"And blueberries!"

"Frosting!"

"Apples!"

They went back and forth like this for the entirety of the short drive. Each suggestion becoming more absurd as the game progressed: Peter shouting out 'fish' and Steve, running out of ideas, saying 'paper'.

Laughing, Peter exclaimed, "Why would you want to eat paper flavoured paper? It's pointless."  
Steve only shrugged, saying mock seriously, "You don't know my life." 

Steve parked outside the entrance of the elementary school building. He turned to Peter, instinctively reaching out to help the boy unbuckle. Peter smiled up at him widely, the seatbelt already undone. 

"Okay, I get it: you're a big boy," Steve huffed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. He straightened Peter up anyway, shifting his crooked glasses into place, fussily running a hand through the unruly mop of hair and neatening the collar of his shirt. "But never too big." He looked at Peter sternly, his eyes, his voice overflowing with a strong, powerful love. 

"Love you, Dad," Peter said, never one to be embarrassed by a show of emotion. He strained to plant a quick kiss on Steve's lightly stubbled cheek, grabbing his backpack and shrugging into it before hopping out of the truck. 

"I love you too, buddy," Steve called after him as he ran out from the truck towards the stairs of the building, his backpack hitting against the back of his legs.  
Reaching the top stair, standing in front of the double-doors to enter the school, he turned to Steve and waved goodbye to him as he had always done -- from the time he was in kindergarten.

Steve watched happily, waving him goodbye, waiting patiently. Driving away only when he was certain that Peter was safely inside the large school building.


	2. Manifestation of Unhappiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter has been rewritten -- if you've read this before, please read it again. ＼(^o^)／

He lived constantly in the knowledge of his own failure. The knowledge of his impending doom which would come from none other but his own hand. That, and his terrifying inability to amount to anything. 

Where was his drive? The will to better himself that had engulfed him in his not long gone and yet to be forgotten youth? 

The passion that had run through his veins at the mere thought of the promise his future held, disappeared. Dissipated, like early morning mist on the frosted over windows. 

What had happened to that young man? Steve asked himself, hands buried deep in the pocket of his wool lined coat, feet crunching on the firmly gravelled parking lot as he made the slow trudge to the front door of his small shop.

'Color Filled -- specialists in photography and more'

Closing his eyes on the inhale, opening on the exhale, he read the familiar words on the overhanging sign. Large, curlicued white font that stood out against the matte black of the backboard. 

He unlocked the front door and tightened his hand reluctantly around the doorknob, his thoughts that he would rather keep buried forcing themselves to the surface. 

The rest of his life, he knew, would be spent in this endless cycle of work and home, work and home, work and home, work and home. 

The continuous, mind-numbing repetitiveness of waking, working, not sleeping. The paradox of hating the horrid solitude that came from sitting in dark rooms and a half empty shop; hating more, the socializing that his job entailed. 

The quiet ding of the door hitting against the small bell that hung in the doorway greeted him, letting his presence be known to the empty shop.

He had designed the studio himself -- all blues and whites, casting an enchanting and ethereal light over the entire studio. 

The counter where he spent much of his day, dark marble. Solid and dependable. 

Closing the door behind him, Steve slipped out of his coat, dumping it over the back of a lone chair. He ran a hand over his rough, unshaven face, sighing loudly as he began with the task of getting ready for the day.

Always he began with cleaning and sorting the shop, which never took as long as he hoped that it would. Quietly he cursed himself and his immaculate behavioral tendencies, staring out the wide storefront windows, recently cleaned and crystal clear. 

A person, bundled in layers upon layers of thick clothing. Figure, barely recognizable beneath the heavy jacket. Face, hidden behind a scarf wound around his neck. 

Now the day's work would begin. 

Passing, as the days usually did once they reached beyond the early morning lull, in a blur of constant hurrying and frenzied snapshots. Rushing tiresomely from venue to venue, meeting and greeting, introducing himself to each new person who walked up to speak to him, lying through his teeth.

"What a cute kid," Steve said to the beaming young mother beside him who stood with her hand laid permanently against her bulging belly, her wild-eyed child covered in cake and dirt and blotches of indistinguishable foods. He grinned, remembering fondly the times those infrequent times of Peter's much younger days when he would eat almost as messily as this. 

As per the mother's request he snapped a picture of the child as she continued chasing her party guests wildly around the backyard. 

He smiled half-heartedly at the mother when she agreed, grin widening tremendously. 

He wondered, as he often did, what would become of all of them in the years to come. 

Would the daughter age as most teenagers did -- growing insolent, insufferable, unable to communicate with beyond screaming matches, shouts, slammed doors? And this child, the one that this mother was carrying, would they be the of the same temperament, or the opposite -- a quiet, helpful child with a permanent smile? 

He wondered of the mother, as young and beautiful as she was, how she shall be when her children were grown, too grown to need her. Wondered if she would go the way of most mothers, tears streaking her face for the smallest of reasons. Screaming at her children for no other reason except that she could, lifting her hand to them in violence, finding solace at the bottom of a liquor bottle. 

He wondered of the absent father, away on business; always away on business. 

He wondered if they would be happy and if the photographs would make any difference. 

He hoped so. Oh, how he hoped so. 

A wedding, Steve muttered a meaningless, "Congratulations." Smiled, at each person. Exuded open friendliness. 

Yet with each snapshot he took he wondered about the finality of the relationship. Wondered which of them would be the first to raise their voice, to push the other, to cheat.

He hoped that they, too, would be happy. Highly doubting that it would be so.

 

 

The little bell over the door jingled, welcoming a customer into the studio. Steve had never liked the bell, had hated it from the very beginning. Mentally, he added to his long list a reminder to take down it down. 

"Good afternoon," Steve greeted, glancing at the clock before looking up from his computer and at the short sandy haired man standing before him.

"Hi- um," the man held out a thick brown envelope, placing it on the countertop. "Ms Romanoff said to bring these here when I brought the boy."

Steve smiled, biting back a laugh -- Natasha had a knack for both making everything she did sound like a clandestine operation and for making her assistants uncomfortable and awkward. 

"Hey, Dad," Peter mumbled, shooting pass both of them and into the bathroom in the back of the studio. 

"So you're her new secretary, " Steve stated conversationally, taking the pictures out of the envelope and looking each of them over once. 

"Not secretary -- a baking assistant," he cleared up. "I'm Clint."

Steve nodded his acknowledgment, carefully slipping the pictures back into the envelope. He bent down, placing it on a small shelf under his desk, his voice muffled as he spoke, "Tell Nat that they'll be ready and framed by tomorrow."

"Anything else?" 

"Yeah- Wait-" Steve began as he righted himself in his seat and looked at Clint, again having to force back his laugh. "Are you taking notes?"

"I wouldn't want to forget anything," Clint said sharply, turning a deep shade of red. "It's important."

Steve looked the man over slowly -- his black cotton T-shirt, dark pressed slacks, bird watchers necklace around his neck, the blush spreading over his cheeks at his embarrassment -- shook his head, his lips turning up into a wry half smile. 

To those who didn't know her, and still to most who did, Natasha cut an intimidating figure. Fast talking, quick acting, tough as nails: a force to be reckoned with. 

Her track record of assistants was not one of the greatest, holding an uncanny tendency of running through young and nervous interns as fast as she got them. 

Steve, understandably, would have been afraid too.

"Assuming that you don't want to get fired," Steve said, as an afterthought. "Stop wearing that tacky necklace -- it's ridiculous."

"Please," Clint scoffed. "I can't get fired because of a chain -- that's discrimination, or something."

Steve shrugged halfheartedly, "Just saying, Nat's fired interns for far less than a ugly chain.

He laughed quietly to himself, returning to his computer as Clint made his way out. Adding to his mental list that he needed to remind himself to make sure Natasha kept her new assistant -- he was adorable, an absolute riot. 

The soft clicking of the opening bathroom door was followed by the sound of a chair behind him. Scraping slightly against the tiled floor.

"Hey, kiddo," Steve said, finishing up on the computer and glancing over his shoulder at Peter sitting hunched in the padded swivel chair, his designated seat. "You want something to eat?"

"No, thanks," Peter mumbled under his breath, barely audible. 

"Really?" Steve asked him, surprised, usually Peter was a ravenous eater. He turned in his chair to look at the boy. 

"Yeah-- Yes," Peter muttered, staring at the open book in his lap. "Dad?" 

"What's up, Pete?"

"Dad... Is something wrong with me?" he asked, staring up at Steve, eyes gleaming with bright, unshed tears. 

"There is nothing wrong with you, Pete. Nothing," Steve said forcefully, moving from his stool to kneel on the floor beside Peter. "What would ever have made you think that?" 

Peter shook his head slowly, wiping away a tear that spilled down his cheek. 

Steve looked at him calmly, urging him forward gently with a nod, "What's going on, Pie?"

"Nothing," he said, swallowing after a pause. "Today, at school, some kids were picking on me... They were saying some things."

He cupped Peter's chin in his hand, bringing him to looked at Steve, "What were they saying?" 

He hiccupped on a sob, "That I'm worthless and nobody would ever want me. Dad? Is it true?" 

Steve felt stung, scratched raw at the unbridled emotion in Peter's voice. How could anyone ever hurt this child? 

"Peter. Who said that to you?" Steve asked, staring him in the eye. "You listen to me, okay. There is not a single thing wrong with you -- not a single thing -- and anyone who says so is not worth listening to. Not worth paying even half a mind to."

Peter nodded his head, wiping away another stream of tears, clutching his knees firmly to his chest, "But that isn't even the worst thing," he said, breaking Steve's heart even more than it already was. 

"Did these kids touch you, Pete?" Steve asked, burying the bubbling anger and forcing himself to stay calm. 

"No, Dad. They didn't touch me, but they kept saying things about you and I didn't know what to say or do and they kept talking, Dad. But I didn't defend you and that's the worst part!" Peter exclaimed, fully sobbing now. 

"Peter, listening to me," Steve said, wrapping the boy into a firm hug, not bothering to ask what had been said. "People always say things about me, kid, and that's okay. You are never, ever obliged to defend me. Okay?" 

Nodding as he continued burying his head into further Steve's chest, his sobs neither subsiding nor quieting. 

"Okay," he mumbled, voice muffled by his mouth being pressed against Steve's chest. 

Steve directed him to look up, once again making eye contact. 

"C'mon, Pete," he said, hugging the boy tighter before letting go of him. "I'll close up early and then we'll go get something to eat."

Peter nodded his agreement, sitting back down in the swivel chair to wait. Steve had to bottle down his absolute frustration, his hands shaking as he continued to work.

He would get the names of whoever it had been that had been bullying Peter tonight and tomorrow he would make a call at the school. 

"Peter," Steve called out, letting Peter know that it was time for them to go. 

The boy quickened his pace, stopping to shrug his backpack over his shoulder. Steve looked down, feeling a light tug on his pants. 

"Please," Peter pleaded, holding out his arms towards Steve. Asking him, silently, to be carried. 

With a smile, Steve obliged.


	3. Of Darkest Defining Moments

"Tell me a story," Peter murmured, bundling further into the thick duvet, far older than him yet still a warm companion. Wrapped up so far in the pale yellow covers that he could barely be seen peeping over the hem, his eyes following his father's fluid movements as Steve shut off the main light and made his way to Peter's bed. 

Settling himself underneath the covers, balancing his large frame precariously half off the bed, half on, Steve curled an arm around Peter. Holding him close, he felt the boy's tiny frame shift as Peter snuggled into his side, burying his face into the firmness of Steve's torso. The dim light of the bedside lamp— flickering slightly at odd intervals— illuminated each sharp feature of Steve's. His eyes losing their brilliant blue in the near darkness, he stared down at the head of curly brown hair. 

"Tell me about Papa," Peter said, somewhere between a quiet question and a shy demand, almost repeating himself exactly, voice crystal clear. Unblinking, he stared up at Steve, training his large brown eyes on his father as he waited. 

"Hmm," Steve hummed, a low rumble that started in his chest and vibrated throughout his entire body. Raising a finger to his chin, seeming to think it over, he asked, more to himself than anyone else, "Where do we begin today?" He curled a strand of Peter's hair around his finger, watching it as it coiled and bounced back into place when he slowly let it go. Watching its smooth spring as he attempted to gather his thoughts in one, clear place. 

Repositioning himself in the small bed— springs crying out as they always did at the added pressure of Steve's extra weight, he reminded himself that he needed to buy Pete a completely new bed before this one gave out, had in fact been meaning to do so for months; another thing for him to add to his never-ending list—making himself as comfortable as possible before he began. "Once, in a large kingdom. A kingdom faraway, but much like here. With castles reaching high into the sky and far beyond the clouds—" 

"So far that you couldn't see where they ended," Peter cut in swiftly, eyes widened in awe, smiling his crooked grin as Steve nodded his acknowledgement and agreement. 

"So far that you couldn't see where the castles and towers ended and where sky began," Steve continued. "The kingdom was prosperous, it, uh— the kingdom was extremely successful. Their great success was mainly thanks to their king; King Anthony."

"Papa," Peter murmured under his breath at the sound of Tony's name, burying his head further into the folds of Steve's t-shirt. 

"Papa," Steve repeated, ruffling the boy's hair gently. "Now, King Anthony loved his job, and performed it with vigor and excitement. Unlike the other kings that had been before him, who despised the 'peasants', King Anthony loved to mingle with the commoners. Spending time with those that he considered good friends. To the disapproval of the court, he preferred to be with them rather than the royal court, who he found to be stuck-up and much rude. Sorry, much too rude," Steve paused to laugh quietly at himself, throwing up a defensive hand at the venomous look Peter shot his way for disrupting the flow of the story. "Sorry. Every Monday and Friday morning, King Anthony would wake up extra early— hours and hours before the sun would even be near to rising. These mornings, more than other's, King Anthony couldn't hide his excitement. This was the day where he would go to see all the children in the local orphanage. Against the courts wishes— because everything that he did was essentially against the courts wishes— the King would dress in his most comfortable clothes. Comfortable, so that he could easily play with the children. He never went empty-handed, and would always take with him a bag full of sweets and books. Sometimes, if the children were insistent enough in asking, he'd bring toys."

"Why not just bring the children toys all the time?" Peter asked thoughtfully. "I mean, I like books but some of my friends don't. Some of my friends only like toys. So, why books? Why not always bring both?" 

"You're asking the important questions, I see," Steve teased lightly, lovingly.

To Steve— probably to most people— nothing painful quite compared to the gradual forgetting that came with when a person was no longer in your presence; the fading in the memory of them, a day, a moment, a smile, in the sound of a laugh, the telling of a joke. A slow, heartbreaking fading of their essence. Nothing much worse than allowing their beauty to simply drift off the face of the earth— God knows that the world is hideous enough already. 

Laying in a drunken pile on his kitchen floor, a mess in every sense of the word, tears streaking his porcelain skin, face in a pool of his own vomit; a night too soon after he had lost Tony. Fueled by the aftereffects of one too many bottles of cheap liquor, of the raw pain coursing through his veins. Of each and everything that he had ever held sacred shattering into smaller and smaller pieces. Pieces far beyond repair. Remembered in hazy snapshots that took hours to come back to him, of making a solemn oath that he would never let that happen to Tony. In whatever way he could, he intended to keep the memory of the man as alive as possible. To save this sliver of Tony, save him the only way that he knew how.

That oath— that promise he had shouted angrily at a sky full of stars, a sky betraying him by being clear and beautiful when Steve was anything but, being clear when he was rainclouds and heavy rains and thunderstorms and floods and hailstones— that oath was what lead to him telling Peter bedtime story after bedtime story.  
King Anthony the Great, who was loving and kind and beautiful. King Anthony the Great; Tony minus all the sadness, the darkness, the unfixable brokeness. As he always did, Steve took this moment to weave the minor truth into his tale. A tale far more complex than it seemed. 

"King Anthony believed strongly in educating the youth," Steve answered fondly, affectionately remembering the man, finding no need to elaborate any further. "Now, where were we? Hm... The orphanage... The orphanage... Right. The King spent the long hours of the day doting over each and every one of the children. When the day was over, King Anthony had to all but be pulled away from them. Outside, after vigorously— excitedly— waving goodbye to the children, King Anthony slid into his exquisite coach—"

"What's exqui— exquis—" Peter halted mid-word, thinking, "Exquisite. What's it mean?"

"Sorry, baby, Dad's a bag of fried hammers sometimes. Exquisite means something along the same lines of absolutely beautiful," Steve answered, smiling down at Peter and waiting for his steady nod before continuing with the story. "The coach was made of extravagant golds and reds, it was beautiful. "What's that!" the King exclaimed, catching sight of the small blue bundle on the seat beside him. He, uh, he hadn't seen it at first because even though he was going blind, he refused to wear glasses. Sometimes the king could be very vain. Just at that moment he heard a tiny cry. A quiet yawn— coming from inside the bundled layers of blanket. Cautiously the King inched towards the bundle and gasped. Looking up at him from the covering, King Anthony was met with the most beautiful pair of brown eyes that he had ever seen. Moving aside the blanket to reveal the adorable face of a little boy, curly hair falling into his face, King Anthony smiled. Tucked into the blanket, there was a small, creased note. What do you think the note said, Pete-pie?"

Peter mumbled unintelligibly, in the few minutes between talking to Steve and listening to the rest of the story his eyes had closed, the boy falling into what would hopefully be a deep sleep. "I don't know," the boy murmured. "Maybe, 'Look after Peter'... Yeah..."

"Yes," Steve agreed, fondly correcting the boy an automatic response, smiling down at Peter as his breathing evened out. He lowered his voice to a quiet whisper, finishing the story more for his own sake than  the off-chance that Peter could still hear him. "King Anthony read the note quietly to himself. Only slightly taken aback at what it said: Look after Peter. He is an angel, deserving of more than this world.  
"And Tony looked at the child, tears in his eyes, and he promised him that he would do exactly that. He would give him the world. Give him more, if he could."

Shuffling off the bed as careful as ever, twisting his body out from underneath Peter in a way that took years of practice and parenting to master, gently he moved Peter so that he lay with his head settled on the plump pillow. 

"'m not sleeping, Dad, jus' resting my eyes," Peter mumbled, arguing weakly, as always not wanting Steve to leave him for the night. At least, not wanting him to leave just yet. "Tell me the rest of it."

"Sure, bud. Tomorrow," Steve said, a small content smile playing on his lips as he peered at his son whilst he finished securely tucking him in. He planted a soft kiss on Peter's forehead and, with one last long glance his way, shut off the  bedside lamp. Hushed, voice a bare whisper, Steve spoke as he backed out of the room, "Sweet dreams, Pete."

°     °     °

His face, blank as he stared at the paper, barely illuminated by the lamp on his desk. The page in front of him, as it almost always was, covered in dark stains from the bottom of his mug being absently rested on the paper and indistinguishable scribbles distractedly drawn. 

Here he was again; defeated. Uninspired. Drained. Downing his fifth cup of bitter coffee, wishing for something stronger. Steve gulped back a mouthful of the coffee, burning his tongue and his throat as it made its way down. 

He tapped his pencil lightly against the palm of his hand, only vaguely aware that he was doing so. Inside him lived millions of intricate stories. An entirety of worlds impatiently awaiting their chance to explode from within him, to paint themselves on these blank pages and leave their mark on the universe.  
He had a millenia's worth of tales living inside him, his mind, his heart. Words filling up his complete being, violent poetry tearing at him from inside as they begged to be released into the open; clawed at him, ripped at him and turned him into the most beautiful strips.  
In him he contained masterpieces, the power to create brilliance with the movement of his hand. Talent coursed through his veins; more powerful a life-force than the blood that pumped through. Yet he sat. Idle. Numbly staring at nothing and everything, his mind wandering to matters of his life he undeniably deemed more important. Peter, the tears that had dried against his cheeks— reddened under his swollen eyes. Peter— fragile, sensitive, much too good for this world.  
The fear that always reared its ugly head whenever Steve's thoughts turned towards Peter made itself be known once again. Unsound insecurities of what would really become of his son niggled at him constantly, stirring the panic that always lay settled inside him. 

He bit at the inside of his lip, an old habit that with as much as he tried he could never quite give up. In these moments that Steve felt it strongest— the need for another person in his life with whom he could share. A person that he could turn to for help and support, a simple shoulder to lean on, to help carry some of the weight burdened upon his back.

"Oh, God, Tony," Steve murmured brokenly, voice hoarse, as he rubbed a hand over his face. In these moments of static quiet he felt it the hardest— his need for Tony by his side. No words could describe how much Steve missed the man, missed his presence, missed the one person who had been with him through some of the worst parts of his life. The man who had subsequently helped in dragging him through; had held his hand firmly through the darkest of times. 

Steve exhaled loudly and gulped down the final mouthful of coffee— reveling in the stark bitterness. What he needed most was a distraction from the fatalistic thoughts that lived unceasingly beneath the surface. Needed a mental diversion from those occasions that he hated when, not even for a second, would they leave him be. Staring  numbly furious at the page he urged himself to write, urged himself to bring forth the words to create the next line in his tale. The first line. 

A sharp rap on the front door pulled him roughly from his pain-filled reverie. Startling him, the knock came again, much louder than before. Loud enough to wake up Peter if they continued.  
He stared at the clock standing just next to his arm on the table, squinting at the antique clock face even with his glasses on. Reading the numbers on the clock, bold roman numerals in a fading black, left him in sheer disbelief. 

"Who knocks on a door at three in the morning?" incredulously he asked himself, tone hushed as he walked through the darkened house. Steps, light as he traipsed barefoot to the lounge. Clucking his tongue quietly, he answered himself, "Murderers, that's who."

The knock came again, insistent. The knocking growing only louder each time. Glancing over his shoulder towards Peter's room, he hoped for their own sake the person at the door, whoever they were, hadn't disrupted Peter's sleep. 

Belatedly perhaps, Steve wondered, if he should have brought with him some type of weapon or, better yet, had ignored the knock completely. He glanced around the room, looking for anything to defend himself with. Nothing. He tightened his hands into fists, if he came to it that would be more than enough to win a fight.  
Too late now to simply ignore, Steve thought, as he put his eye close to the peephole. Whoever decided that three AM was a good time to stop by would have to face the full brunt of his anger and irritation.  
Eye to the peephole, all fight drained out of him. Eye widening in surprise at whom he saw. In the moment; struck by a sudden bewilderment he could not do much besides stare blindly, taken aback at the sight before him. 

"Steve, I know you're there!" the deep masculine voice called to him through the door, sensing Steve on the other side of it. Following his loud call with more of the same persistent knocking, he managed to drag Steve back from his shocked stillness. 

Clumsily, moving as if he were made of lead, he unlocked the door. Harder to do when his hands were shaking almost uncontrollably. Taking in three large, shallow breaths Steve hoped that he had calmed himself enough, that his face would not betray him in any way. Cold wind hitting him as he stood in the open door, he could not help himself but to stare mutely at the dark-haired and unshaven man standing before him: Bucky. The same Bucky that Steve had once own, the same yet unrecognizable. 

Bucky, he shot a small smile at Steve. A tiny smile tinged with anxious greeting as he graced Steve's appearance, the man framed in the doorway. 

Steve sighed, concealing his surprise behind resignation. "Its three in the morning— You could've woken up my kid, this entire neighbourhood— It's three in the morning—" Steve began as eloquent as ever, hunkered down by exhaustion, unsure of how to act beyond muted astonishment. 

"Yeah, Stevie, I know" Bucky muttered— the affectionate nickname rolling off his tongue naturally, making Steve both feel instantly at home and, at the same time, on edge— nodding slowly, running his bottom lip between his teeth before shooting a quick nervous smile at Steve. He ran a hand through his tangled, shoulder-length hair, longer than Steve had ever seen it being kept before, "I just... I really need a place to crash for a few nights. This— this was a bad idea, wasn't it? Yeah... Yeah, it was." He laughed, dry and without humour. 

"It's been nine years, Buck," Steve pointed out for want of anything else to say, quiet disbelief lacing itself through every word. "How do you even know where I live?" 

Bucky shrugged, biting imperceptibly on his inner bottom lip as he looked up at the slightly taller man. His steel grey eyes shrouded with nervousness for the barest second before he met Steve's eyes and cracked into a wide, forced, cocky grin. "It's kinda scary how easy it was to find you."

"Nine years, Bucky. Nine years," Steve repeated himself slightly more forceful than before, grinding down on his back teeth, voice a crisp monotone as he held no regard for Bucky's attempt at humour, "And you just show up at my door— just show up outta nowhere— no "hi", no "how've you been", no nothing. Just asking for a place to crash."

"I know. Steve, I know it's been forever and I... I really don't have an excuse," Bucky trailed off, shrugging apologetically as his eyes averted, drifted away from Steve's to look behind him and into the living room. Darting his gaze over royal blue walls, white trimming, scattered shoes, backpacks. "How's Peter?" he asked, bringing his eyes to once again meet with the bright blue pair across from him. 

A large sigh escaped from deep in Steve's lungs. A breath he had not realized he was holding. He stared intensely at the man in front of him, seconds ago he had been fully prepared to turn him around, send him back to whatever hovel he had crawled out from. To wish him good luck with whatever problem he had and send Bucky on his merry way. Too many years had passed for him to hold any attachments to frivolous ideas of loyalty. Too much had happened. Yet he had asked that question; only two words that, if Steve were to turn Bucky away now, he would never forgive himself. 

He stepped aside quietly, creating a small space between him and the door jamb. "Come in, Bucky," barely a whisper. 

"Thanks. Thank you," he said gratefully, letting out a breath of his own and squeezing himself past Steve and into the lounge. 

Checking twice to make sure that it was secure, Steve locked the door behind them. Awkwardly, hands buried deep in the pockets of his sweatpants, he watched Bucky as he shuffled in place. Bucky, who looked tired and downtrodden, as if he hadn't slept in days, backpack slung over his shoulder and large duffel bag at his feet, standing still in the center of the lounge and turning his head slowly from side to side to take in his surroundings. 

Nodding in slight approval, Bucky said, "Nice place." His eyes traveling over the expanse of the room. 

"Yeah," Steve shrugged as he agreed, the collected exhaustion hitting him like a speeding eighteen-wheeler— the impact sudden, capable of knocking him off his feet, sending him crashing into hours of countless sleep. It was much too early for him to deal with any of this. He ran a hand through his blond hair, ruffling it into even more of a mess than it already was. 

"You didn't answer my question," Bucky said, prompting Steve into returning to the present. Steve brought his attention back to the other man, noticing how natural it had been for him to just drop his bags into a small pile against the wall and stand himself in front of the fireplace, lightly fingering the edges of a bright red picture frame. "The one 'bout Peter. How is he?"

Shrugging heavily, bringing his broad shoulders up to meet his ears, Steve stood beside Bucky. He looked intensely at the picture in the frame of him, Tony and Peter, taken at their last Christmas spent together. 

"Not as good as he could be," Steve answered with a quiet sigh under his breath, surprising himself with the honesty at which he was divulging the fact.  
He smiled slowly at the picture— sad, nostalgic at the sight of them in the matching Christmas sweaters that Tony had insisted on making himself. Almost drying out their holiday savings by buying more red yarn than was necessary, red yarn that had been conveniently shoved into a dark corner of a cupboard and forgotten about once the project was over. The large snowman design sewn slightly crooked into the crimson material of the sweater— "Let's pretend it was intentional, why don't we?" Tony, saying it with a bright smile, proudly showing Steve the sweater and holding it up for them both to admire his handiwork— stark white with an equally as crooked carrot set for a nose. For so long he had avoided really looking, not seeing, seeing was a different story altogether, but really looking at any of the photographs from before. Keeping the ones on the mantel up for what was mostly Peter's benefit— he never wanted the boy to forget what his father looked like. 

"It's hard, raising a kid on your own," Bucky stated, rocking on his heels. "It's hard."

Steve nodded in agreement; the man was right. It was hard, but as hard as it was, no words existed to explain how incredibly worth it it could be. 

"It's late, Buck," Steve murmured, looking at Bucky from the corner of his eye. He ran a hand through his hair again and turned to face the other man. "I'd put you in the guest room but I really hadn't been expecting anybody."

Bucky's quiet, apologetic laugh emphasized the ending of Steve's sentence as he trailed off, the awkwardness sinking in on Steve's side, again. Shrugging, he met Steve's gaze, offering an apology of his own, "I'll take the couch." As if there were an option for him to sleep anywhere else. 

"Sure," Steve said, gesturing towards the wall, beside the fireplace, "You can keep your bags in the corner over there for now. Uh, keep them where they already are. Never mind." Bucky didn't move, only absently nodding. 

Quickly, Steve gathered together a sheet and blanket from the small linen cupboard in the hall and pulled stray pillows from the guest room. Walking back into the lounge he found Bucky still in front of the mantle, this time holding the largest framed portrait of Peter as a baby. Handling it gingerly, with gentle hands. As if any slight touch would cause it to break.

He inched forward quietly, not wanting to disturb the disquieting intimacy of the moment. It didn't last, however; Bucky had always had almost perfect hearing. 

"This was how small he was the last time that I saw him," Bucky uttered, a raw whisper. He looked at the picture for a bit longer before placing the simple black frame hesitantly on the shelf, further in front than where he had found it.  
Wordlessly, Steve handed Bucky the small pile of linen. He turned to look at the picture that held Bucky's rapture— one of a widely smiling Peter, caught mid-laugh, his cheeks a bright pink contrasting itself perfectly with the pale yellow of his clothes. 

The photograph had been taken in the very beginning of Summer, Steve remembered. After weeks of clouded, darkened skies the sun had shone a pale light, warming up the outside enough that they did not have to wear layers upon layers of clothing to venture out.  
It was, of course, Tony's idea for them to have a picnic in their backyard. Waking early and putting together a basket of sandwiches as Steve slept well into the afternoon, resting after endless hours of work, shift that seemed to follow shift, and looking after both their home and Peter. Excitedly waking Steve up, surprising him with a steaming mug of coffee, Peter already bathed and dressed.

Steve remembered it clearly, tenderly, them laying out the checkered sheet laden with food under the large, over-hanging oak— a beautiful cliché, them the image of peaceful, happy family. He remembered it so clearly, the pang of sadness shooting through him a burning arrow. 

"He was two when we took that," Steve told the other man, fighting to control the break in his voice. He tore his eyes away from the image to look at Bucky. "Just turned two."

Solemnly, Bucky nodded. A frown painted his face, the years piling suddenly and showing his age. Showing him older than he actually was: fifty, sixty when he was no more that thirty-four. A moment of loaded silence passed between them, not awkward or uncomfortable but filled, rather, with years of guilt and regret. 

"Go to bed, Buck," resigned, Steve muttered quietly. Reserved. "We'll talk in the morning— later in the morning."

Leaving Bucky to sort out his bedding for himself, he passed by his own room to peek in on Peter as he slept. He sent a silent prayer to any God's if they were listening, thanking them for at least not allowing this to have interfered with Peter's sleep. If anything else, he could find pleasure in this small blessing. 

Quietly, he watched him from the doorway and, stomach clenching firmly, he exhaled. Bone deep, this exhaustion that he had been forced to carry with him for years and years, an entire lifetime. More a part of him than he would like to admit. The sound of Bucky's distant shuffling, his attempts to be quiet, filled the house. For the first time in many years, Steve could really feel the cold hand of fear, of distress, grasp at his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on Tumblr at [aycebasketcase](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aycebasketcase)


	4. Stifle the Silence of Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// brief flashback & memories of abuse, a violent situation

_"Kids like you don't go to heaven."_

_His voice, a disembodied echo that emanates from everywhere in the room, pitch black if not for the pinpricks of candlelight, shallow as they fight to break through the darkness._

_"Repent." A monosyllabic order, neither shouted nor whispered, cutting through the terrifying stillness that surrounds him._

_"_ _Repent!" There came the shriek, the_ _yell, the inhuman roar. The man's frustration overcomes him, he bangs the end of his cane sharply against the cold tile floor_ _; earsplitting crack reverberates off the sturdy walls._   


  


"Dad?" Peter's quiet voice, an echo fighting its way through a solid body of water.

With a shake of his head and a strength he didn't know he possessed, Steve dragged himself from the suffocating depths of his mind. Forced himself to return to the realities of his present; body eerily still as he stood in front of the stove, sunlight streaming through the lace curtain covered windows.

A small hand tugged at the leg of Steve's light blue jeans— torn, worn in at the knees, splattered with paint from an art project he and Peter had tackled together— calling for his complete attention.

He blinked twice and inhaled, unsettled. Fingers flexing against the cool ceramic counter, he counted down under his breath slowly from one to ten— a calming method, tried and tested, that he had learned from Tony.

 _Memories_. They always came back to you. It didn't matter how much you tried to run away from them, it didn't matter how well you thought you were hiding.

"Dad?" Peter repeated his quiet call, raw concern tinging the edges of that single word. Plaintive in his asking for his father's notice, attempting in his own way to snap Steve out of whatever trance he had fallen into.

"Yeah— Yes. Sorry," Steve breathily apologized, curling his lips into what he hoped was more than just a passable smile as he looked down at the boy.  
Stare close enough, peel back each of the layers of the almost immaculate façade, and it would have been easy to see that while his lips curved into a smile, his eyes never truly brightened. Sadness lived there. Acquired for itself a home in the depths of his ocean blue eyes; a permanent boarder turned away only temporarily.   
"Sorry, Dad just got a bit distracted there, kiddo," Steve scrunched up his nose, squished his face comically. "What do you need?"

Peter stared up at him, eyes wide. Children were far more perceptive than adults— it was something that people had often told Steve. He hadn't needed to hear it, though, he could see it clear as day. The crease in Peter's brow, between the clouded pair of dark eyes, thoughtful as he looked up at Steve.

His small fingers hooked further into Steve's pants, twisting the fabric nervously.

"There's somebody in the bathroom," Peter whispered, face pale as he murmured in a barely audible voice.

Mentally, Steve slapped himself.

Peter should have been told about Bucky as soon as Steve was able to, of course he should have been. He knew Peter well enough to know that seeing a stranger in his home would send him into all kinds of distress. He hated that he had forgotten; a new hatred that burned deep.

Dropping to rest his weight on his knee, Steve leveled his gaze with Peter. "It's okay, Pie," Steve said, lowering his voice considerably; a calming technique. He placed a comforting hard on the boy's shoulder, something he had learned over time would clear Peter's mind. "He's an old friend."

"How old? I never saw him before," Peter asked, inquisitive, slightly accusatory.

" _Super_ old—from _way_ before you were born, actually," Steve said in exaggeration, stifling his chuckle. "His name's Bucky. He's basically your uncle."

"I'm not calling him Uncle Bucky." Adamant.

Steve laughed warmly and ruffled Peter's wild nest of hair into a bigger mess of tangles. Soon, he had to remember, he would have to take Peter for a haircut. In the small mirror that had been stuck to the door of the dull grey fridge, he caught sight of himself. Hair growing in unseemly at the sides, he'd put himself down for a quick cut, too.   
Picturing his schedule, intensely choked full with both work and school, he couldn't think when he would have even the smallest space to do it.

Shoving that thought to the back of his mind, he filed it away to return to later. He lifted Peter onto one of the black, padded stools that lined the marble-topped counter— Steve, genuinely smiling now at the sound of his son's sweet giggle as he was carried the few feet off the ground and placed comfortably on the seat with its cover peeling, showing its age.

Making sure Peter was comfortable, he continued with the task he had set himself with from that morning— making enough breakfast for all three of them. The stove top having already heated up considerably and casting a warmth over the kitchen, Steve mixed together the limited assortment of bowls of pancake batter.

Halting music filtered through the kitchen, switching jaggedly between stations as Peter searched for the morning news. A rough soundtrack of background noise.

"What smells so good?" Bucky asked, walking into the kitchen with a muted shuffle, voice still husky from sleep. Surprising Steve.

How a man of his size could move with such stealth, Steve would never know. Stilling his hand around the handle of the pan, he replaced it over the lowly heated stove plate.

"Pancakes," Steve answered shortly, forcing an unnatural smile Bucky's way. His eyes raked slowly over the other man, standing out of place in the kitchen, between the doorway and breakfast counter. Hair pulled back into a limp ponytail at the base of his neck, dark circles beneath tired eyes. "You slept alright?" he asked instinctively, every bit the courteous gentleman, lowering his voice to a whisper. Steve's natural need to nurture, to care and protect making itself apparent, chipping away temporarily at his adamantine exterior.

Waving his hand in a show of nonchalance, Bucky dismissed Steve, "Yeah... Yeah. Can I help with anything?"

"You can set the table," he offered, returning his focus to the pancakes, flipping one out and filling the pan with more batter.

"That's my job!" Peter cut in with a yell. Listening, even though his eyes were solely focused on the clunky, grey radio. "I always lay the table," he explained for Bucky's benefit, emphasizing with an apologetic shrug aimed the man's way, "And you won't know where anything is, too."

Steve shrugged, unintentionally mirroring Peter, nodding in agreement as he said, "Well, then maybe you should actually start with that, Pie. Bucky, you can just... sit there." He waved over his shoulder toward the counter.

Behind him, Steve could hear Peter flick through a few more stations before settling on _Good Morning America,_ the presenters' smooth voice cutting through the slowly thickening awkwardness. Satisfied, the boy dropped from the chair and pattered around the kitchen, bare feet slapping against the linoleum, pulling out cutlery conveniently placed in all of the lower cupboards.

Steve glanced at the bright yellow, chicken themed clock, bought when Peter was eight and had been obsessed with having a pet chicken of his own. An obsession sparked by a spontaneous trip to the animal Flag Farm barely an hours drive away.

"Forty-four minutes, Pete," Steve noted, cocking his head in the direction of the clock, his eyebrows absurdly raised. Placing the first plate stacked high with pancakes in the middle of the table, on the yellow placemat, also chicken themed. It had been a phase. Steve missed it.

A sharp tug pulling down on his pants leg urged Steve to turn away from the oven, the last bit of batter in the pan. Peter smiled up at his father, arms raised pointedly. Asking, without using a single word, to be picked up, to once again be helped onto the high chair.

The boy was so tiny, far smaller in size than any of other children his age that Steve had met. From what he knew, too, Peter was far needier. But who could blame him?

Affectionately he ran a hand through his son's head of curly brown hair, tousled it fondly and grinned as he watched him stack his own plate— chipped away in a spot on the edge— with three different kinds of pancake. Blueberry, raspberry, chocolate chip. Happily indulging himself in his breakfast.

"This is good," Bucky said, his gruff voice once again surprising Steve— the man's stoic silence lead Steve close to completely forgetting Bucky was there.

"Thanks— Thank you—" Steve stumbled, unsure of where to take the conversation. Bucky's presence still unsettling Steve; his entire reappearance into Steve's life unsettling him.

As uncomfortable as Steve was, suffocating in the uneasy awkwardness of having his and Peter's morning invaded, it seemed not to be affecting the other two.

Peter and Bucky sitting on opposite sides of the counter, near exact parallels of each other— Peter, unnaturally quiet; Bucky, silent in a way that seemed strangely natural for him.

"Twenty minutes," Steve noted once again, the table almost clear of food.

"By the angel," Peter gasped loudly, stuffing down his last bit of chocolate syrup-drenched pancake and jumping off the stool to get into his shoes. Still bare feet tapping lightly against the tiled floor.

Laughing to himself, Steve watched him go. Scraping the legs of the three-legged stool against the floor as he stood, gathering the dishes into the sink to soak for the rest of the morning.

"By the angel?" Bucky asked, shooting a questioning look Steve's way— the first clear thing that he had said in a long while.

Absently, Steve nodded. The knowledge that the things Peter said and did were not common to everyone often escaped Steve's mind. He'd forget that Peter's lovable quirks were oddities to other's, and feel attacked whenever it was brought up.

"Yeah," he said, nodding at Bucky, "It's from some new show we've been watching. Well, not new— new enough. It's, um, Shadowhunters."

Confused— resigned to his confusion— Bucky shrugged, his hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. "I don't really get time for much TV," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anybody around him.

"Pete, ten minutes," Steve called down the passage in an attempt to get the boy's attention, to urge him to speed up, seeming not to hear Bucky.

Peter raced into the kitchen— shoes on, book in hand, ready for the day. Making his entrance just as Steve finished packing his backpack, complete with lunch and a juice-box, and slung it over his shoulder.

Lightly patting Peter on the back, Steve directed the boy outside. "Run to the car," he said gently, "I'll be there in a minute."

"Okay, but I'm counting," Peter said seriously, already out the door. His voice as he counted down rhythmically from sixty carried over his shoulder towards Steve.

Standing just in the doorway, hand on the door knob, Steve kept his eyes on Peter. Beside him, Bucky's presence a solid wall. Hesitating, unsure if he should leave Bucky alone in his home. Hesitance lead to a powerful flood of guilt— this was the man Steve had known almost his entire life. Except, this wasn't.

Voice thick— gravelly in the way of unpaved roads, of hail stones hitting against tin roofs— Steve, not facing Bucky, murmured, "Take a shower. Change. We'll have lunch together."

"Where?" Bucky asked. The hand that settled on Steve's arm briefly, pulled away as if he had only just realized what he had done. Pulled back as if he were burned; a vampire and a holy cross.

"You know where," Steve's voice softened, quieter, his eyes flickering over Bucky's face as he closed the door behind him with a click.

Bucky stood forlornly in a strange house belonging to a man he now could only barely recognize.

  


°     °      °

  


Steve slid into the booth furthest in the back, where Bucky was already seated. The squeaky leather a welcoming sound, the grainy wood of the table a welcoming sensation.

He glanced around Gregorio's; the old diner that had stood in this city for longer than either Bucky or Steve had lived in it. Retro, vintage; dated in a way that fit perfectly.   
Everything about the place held intimate memories; delicately wrapped presents, ribbon tied into a neat bow.

"It's been forever," Bucky mused, glancing around the café, empty but for the smattering of customers spread across the diner, taking in the few others who had managed to beat the lunch crowd.

"There was a bit of a traffic jam—"

"No, not you," Bucky halted Steve with a laugh, smiling at the light red dusting across Steve's cheeks beyond his control, the mouth drawn in a thin line in embarrassment. "This place. I can't believe how little it's changed."

"Yeah," agreeing, Steve nodded as he slid out of his light brown, woolen jacket.

The jacket, loved and well-worn; gifted to him by somebody whose name he could no longer remember.  Thrown unceremoniously on the seat beside him, Steve leaned forward, hands clasped on the table between them. His body strung unnaturally taut, stiff.

Silence settled over them. That same asphyxiating, choking silence falling over their table. Same as what had enveloped them that very morning.

Steve stared at the table, eyes trained on the spot in the center of the table— a pair of initials carved into the wood, surrounded by the outline of a heart, there for as long as Steve could remember— fresh when Steve was seventeen, fading now. _C+N,_ Steve wondered if they were happy, together or not.

It bothered him, the man had to admit, that he could not strike up any form of conversation with Bucky. Niggled away at him, this uneasiness that he couldn't get over, couldn't overcome. The conversation that he'd spent the better part of the day planning disappeared, gone in the instant that he had taken his seat; a wisp of smoke in the wind.

A shiver ran up his spine, a nervous tingle that danced across his skin when eyes fell over him. When he was watched, placed under close scrutiny. Bucky chuckled stiffly at Steve having caught him in the act.

"You're uncomfortable, aren't you?" Bucky asked, running a hand through his freshly washed hair, the citrus scent of Steve's shampoo wafting off of him. His gruff voice cutting through Steve's stupor. "We could order lunch. Or—"

"Look, Bucky," Steve cut in haltingly, meeting Bucky's gaze directly, unwavering, "I don't have time for lunch— The— I need to get back to work."

"I know. I just thought..." Bucky trailed off, gesturing loosely between them. Quietly, "I just thought that we could eat, talk. Catch up."

Steve shrugged, planting his hands firmly on the table. Grounding himself as physically as he was grounding himself mentally, blunt splinters of chipped wood digging into the heels of his palms.

Peter, he reminded himself. He needed to make sure that having Bucky around would be safe for Peter. Despised the fact that that was what the situation had come to. 

"I just need to know what's happened?" Steve asked in a hush. Frustration bumbling just below the surface. Checking the hostility in his voice, he exhaled a noiseless breath. "What's been going on with you?"

"A lot. A lot's been going on," Bucky replied, a quietened murmur that stood heavily in the miles of space between them. Averting his eyes from Steve's, taking in a place somewhere over and beyond the man's muscled shoulder. He let out a breathy sigh, dragging his eyes back to Steve and taking in his more relaxed posture— arms rested loosely on the table. Picking at the cracked skin at the tips of his fingers, surrounding his nails— a nervous gesture— Bucky muttered, "A lot that I really can't talk about— Don't want to talk about."

"I get it," Steve stated calmly, all venom draining away as quickly as it had come. "I just need to know that it's over. That, whatever it is, it's in the past. For Peter's sake."

"It's in the past," Bucky reassured in a rush, voice steady. "Rumlow. Everything. All of it. I swear."

"Okay," Steve said after a pause, gathering his thoughts. He clenched his hands together, knuckles cracking loudly in the firm grasp, and let out another deep breath. "Okay. That's okay. How long do you need to stay?"

"I don't know," Bucky muttered, languidly running a hand through hair in what Steve had come to realize was a reflex action, brushing away the few straggling strands of shoulder length hair from covering his eyes, "A few weeks. Just until I can get back on my feet."

"Bucky, I don't know—"

"Please. I'll get a job, pay rent, stay out of your hair as much as possible," Bucky pleaded breathlessly, holding onto the edge of the table firmly, he met Steve's gaze. "Please."

His eyes, gleaming bright under the fluorescent lighting of the diner. But more than that— a sheen of unexpected, unshed tears. This, his last option.

"You can stay. You can stay long as you need," Steve told him, taking only a moment to think about it before making his decision. "We can talk about rent some other time." Strangely businesslike.

"Thank you," Bucky said. "I mean it."

"Don't thank me," Steve said roughly, holding a hand up to stop the man from going any further. "It's the least that I could do. It's— I owe you this much."

"You owe me nothing."

"We both know that's not true," his voice roughened with a harder edge than he had intended. Forceful. Almost a yell. Another exhale, and Steve lowered his voice. Lowered his eyes, too, from Bucky's, once again his stare piercing into the depths of the tabletop, making out a series of disconnected shapes. Laughing humourlessly, lightly, he muttered, "Now what?"

Shrugging, Bucky's voice lowered to the similar, hushed tone of Steve's. The two of them falling into their own cocoon of privacy; an illusion of intimacy. "So," Bucky asked, worrying at the hem of his jacket sleeve, "Peter? What's it like?" The shy smile breaking across his face, dazzling.

Immediately, the mention of Peter chipping away at any of the remaining tension between them.

"He's the biggest pain in the neck," Steve said with a fond laugh, "And the light of my life."

"You really love him, don't you?" Bucky asked, watching Steve intensely.

"I do," Steve agreed quietly, nodding.

"And..." Bucky prodded, staring intently at the man across from him. "What's that like?"

"Loving him? It's funny. It's like nothing that I've ever experienced," he paused. "I love him so much, Bucky. But— But it's different. You ever think—" Steve grasped at the air in front of him, grasped at straws; as if the perfect words to describe how he felt were floating in the space before him and he could physically grab onto them to use them, "You ever love someone so much and you think you'd die for them? You think that it's so true, so real, and you're so certain of it, but you won't _really_ know. Then. Then, when you think of it, maybe you would've died for a few but you wouldn't have _lived_ for any of them. And him— Peter— I'd die for him in a heartbeat, he wouldn't even have to ask. But I'm also living for him. Every single second, every day; living _for him._ And that isn't love, not in the way that I've been taught it. It's so much more than love. So much more."

He inhaled shakily, crooked smile aimed at Bucky with a shrug. His voice laden with kempt up emotion, chest heaving rapidly, he whispered, "I don't know if that makes any sense?"

Bucky stared at Steve, reassured him sluggishly, emotion restrained. "It does make sense," Bucky murmured, nodding along with everything that Steve had said. He was honest; even put into the most arbitrary of words, it did make perfect sense.

Steve sneaked a quick glance at the slim wristwatch tucked beneath the sleeve of his shirt, brown leather strap dark against porcelain skin. Twelve thirty; cutting too close for comfort. Thank goodness he was his own boss, or else he would have been fired ages ago.

Sliding smoothly out of the booth, Steve neatened himself absentmindedly. He looked down at Bucky, tired wariness rubbing away at both of them. Roughened edges alluding to how much, in the few passing years, they had aged.

A small smile graced Steve's face, a hushed utterance falling from his mouth, "Bucky, I gotta get back to work. How 'bout you have dinner with us tonight? With Peter and me?"

"Sure. I'd like that a lot."

  


°    °    °

  


"So, here's me, walking past an alley when I hear this yell," Bucky relayed the story, swallowing down a mouthful of Steve's creamy chicken casserole, he leaned forward in rapt excitement, "This fucking—"

"Language," Steve chastised, staring at Bucky with his eyes wide. Flicking his gaze quickly in Peter's direction; a clear warning.

"This _freaking_ war cry," Bucky continued, correcting himself, pointed glare focused on Steve. From across the table, Peter giggled, poked Bucky's hand lightly with the blunt end of his fork and urged him to continue. "And I think _'_ _shit',_ because I know that voice. Before I can catch myself, I'm walking down this deserted passage. And what do you think I see?"

A pause for suspense as Bucky looked around at the other two.

"What did you see?" Peter prompted, enthralled.

"Your _dad,_ over there. Steve, holding this fu— this freaking trash can lid as a shield. Defending himself against this giant," Bucky exclaimed, hands banging lightly against the dinner table and making the dishes rattle.

"Joke was on you, because I could've beat his ass— Uh, hurt him considerably, without you," Steve said, raising his glass of orange juice in a mock toast. "And, he wasn't a giant. I was just small."

"You wouldn't have done anything to him, if it wasn't for me," came the quick reply, Bucky's smile an impish curl.

Already, a lightness existed between them that had not been there before. Thick confines of tension, constricting chains of too many memories; nothing couldn't be solved by dinner, recipe courtesy of Steve's ma, Sarah.

The heady, euphoria inducing smell of her chicken outdone only by the taste. Delicious as it was when Steve made it, it would never equal to how hers had been.

Ignoring Bucky, acknowledging him only with the roll of his eyes, Steve turned to Peter. Falling easily into _father mode,_ he said, sincerity and pleading laced through each word, "Please, don't take this as a reason enough to fight. Violence isn't always the answer."

Loudly, Bucky snorted. He coughed violently into his fist, choking on a mouthful of the pasta.

"You," eyes watering from the fit Bucky had managed to control, he declared, pointing an accusing finger at Steve, "You should be the last one to talk. Peter—"

"Bucky," Steve warned with a smile, teasing edged with caution.

"No." Bucky waved him off. "Peter, listen to me. Your dad has never made a fully thought out decision in his life. He was all " _fists firsts, thoughts later"._ Fuck, if I had a dollar for every time I cleaned blood off him, or dressed his wounds I'd be a millionaire."

"I was young and stupid," Steve argued. "Peter isn't stupid."

"You weren't stupid. You were brave. Courageous. Righteous. The best damn person that I knew," Bucky argued back, voice rising threateningly; as if he were personally offended. Fast as it had rose, it dropped dangerously low. Eyes burning with questioning fire, he stared at Steve. "When did you lose your fire?"

"Maybe around the same time—" Steve began harshly, fueled by ire. He clenched his jaw and pinched the bridge of his nose, brow furrowing and taking in a deep breath. "You know. Just. Just  forget it."

Knuckles white, he grasped onto the handle of his fork. Staring viciously ahead, pushing the remnants of his food around the plate. Appetite lost. Evening soured.

"Dad," Peter whispered, frightened and small, "I think I'm done."

Steve snapped his eyes over to Peter and nodded, pushing away his own plate and exhaling deeply. "Me, too. You go do your homework, then you can get in the shower. Okay?"

"Okay," Peter said warily, stepping down from his seat at the small, circular table. Stopped from taking his cutlery to the sink by the weight of Steve's hand over his.

"It's okay, bud. I'll sort it out," Steve assured him gently with a soft smile. "I'll finish up here and help you in a bit. Call for me if you need anything."

Peter nodded, staring at his feet, at the floor, as he shuffled out of the room. Steve's eyes held firmly on the boy's retreating figure.

He steadied himself, stood from the table as calmly as he possibly could.

"Steve," Bucky said, depthless voice— rough around the edges, unrefined— stopping Steve for a moment long enough for him to reach and grasp onto Steve's arm. "I'm sorry, Steve. I—"

"I don't care," Steve hissed, wrenching his arm out of Bucky's hold. "There's some things that don't get spoken about. And, the past? The past _doesn't get spoken about._ All of that? It gets forgotten."

"It shouldn't."

"It's better this way. It's— Trust me. It's better this way."

"It isn't," Bucky argued, keeping his voice as low as Steve's in fear of Peter overhearing the argument. He followed close behind Steve and continued, "You think it is. You think you can push all that shit to the back of your mind and then it's gone? It's not. You don't confront it and it'll eat away at you until there's nothing of you left."

Crashing the dishes angrily into the sink, Steve whirled on Bucky. Fuming, he stabbed a finger in the center of Bucky's solid chest. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"You're right," Bucky agreed, eyes slitted, mouth drawn in a straight line, jaw clenching angrily, hands raised in surrender. "You're the one who did the twelve step program, not me."

Anger flashed behind Steve's eyes, darkening the blue of his irises. Rage twisted his face into one that was barely recognizable as his own.

"This conversation is done," Steve said. Restrained monotone, holding a clear sense of finality to it; burning fury danced at the edge of each word, dared Bucky to object. Glaring at Bucky heatedly, Steve shook his head and pushed his way past. "I have to go to my son."

"Don't go to him angry, Steve," Bucky urged in a hush, gripping Steve's arm, "We know better than that."

°

_"Repent."_

_The loud yell, the steady tapping of a cane against concrete. The man's unfaltering footsteps as he circled the boy, kneeling, naked, but for the pair of black shorts. The boy, hands clasped firm behind his head._

_"Repent. Cleanse yourself of your sins. Repent."_

_The boy, Steve, chest heaving rapidly in time with the racing of his heart. A whimpering mess._

_"Father, forgive me," he stuttered, a hollow whisper. "Father, forgive me."_

_"Repent!" the loud roar; the inhuman shriek. Shattering any semblance of serenity as easy as shattering glass._

_"Father, forgive me. Father, forgive me. Father, forgive me. Father, forgive me."_   


  


Steve gasped for breath. Sweat dotted his face heavily, mingled with trails of unchecked tears.

His body rattled with a set of deep heaving breaths, struggling with each sharp intake. He fought with the sheets entangling him, wound around his body like the length of a boa constrictor; painfully entrapping him.

With a thud, he landed on the floor. Knees scraping against the uncarpeted wood. The realization that he was running away dawning on him moments later, only when he stumbled against the sharp corner of the drawer halfway across his room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I'm not American, Good Morning America was the most American radio station name I could think of. America. 
> 
> 2) I've never had a pancake that was anything but pancake, so idk about filling or anything
> 
> 3) I was in a really dark place when I wrote this ending, so, I'm sorry?


	5. He Could Not Tell You His Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title shamelessly "borrowed" from Romeo by Until the Ribbon Breaks
> 
> This would've been done and posted sooner, but I got stuck in the first season of Attack on Titan (I'm Ereri trash now tbh)

The memories sliced through Steve, much like the sharpened length of a sword pushed into soft flesh and pulled out at an agonizingly slow pace.

Swift, yet as forceful as being struck by flying debris, shrapnel, brought with a rush of gale force winds.

Jagged, stuttered huffs of breath escaped from his burning lungs. Tense, strung tight, panting harder than if he had run a series of marathons in quick succession of each other.

_Kids like you don't go to heaven_.

Steve dug his teeth hard into the flesh of his swollen bottom lip, an acrid taste of metal filling his mouth.

_Kids like you don't go to heaven._

The words echoed in Steve's mind, as cruel now as they had been fifteen years ago. Brutal. Etching their way back onto his mind, worse for the fact he has spent much of his life burying them.

_Kids like you don't go to heaven._

Biting down harder on his bottom lip, Steve forced himself to reign his mind back in. Slowly, more staggered than steady, he counted down backward from one hundred.

_Horrid children. Godless children._

Sweat blanketed his skin, an unwelcome slick sheen. It dusted Steve's pockmarked forehead and, to it, stuck thick strands of straw-like hair.

_Godless children. Sin filled children._

An approaching patter of bare footed steps broke slightly into Steve's warped subconscious. The sound of steps unfaltering in their stead.

"Stevie?"

In the distance Steve heard Bucky's voice call out to him. Far away, tinny. A hollow echo as it fought its way through a narrow tunnel, through a wall of solid water, to be noticed.

He neared Steve with caution, tread light and hands held out before him.

The furrow of Steve's brow was a harsh twist, far from the delicate gathering during those moments when he fell into deep thought. Agony, clear agony, painted itself across his face.

Bucky knew that expression— deep frown burned into Achillean features, lines marked a face drained of blood.   
The expression was one he had seen on Steve before, was one he himself had worn on many occasions.

"Steve," he called out again, words as firm as they were quiet. A blanket of reassurance.

Bucky refused to remain standing at the edge of the kitchen. He was a solid presence toeing his way forward an inch at a time, his voice the disembodied vestiges of an echo in the darkness.

Chest rising and falling rapidly in time with the racing of his heart, nose flaring as he coerced uneven breaths in and out, Steve rested his forehead against the cool wood of the cupboard door.   
A hushed sigh wracked through his body. Steve finding enough strength only to let out the drawn exhale instead of bringing himself to mutter an answer.

He tightened his hands around the edge of the counter. Tight enough his knuckles showed white, tight enough it bit into the soft flesh of his palms and he relished at the sharp shooting splinter of pain.

Quietly, Steve inhaled. He screwed his eyes shut and fought against the familiar sensations creeping, clawing through his body; a violation as unwanted now as they always were.

Hesitant— Bucky knowing all too well the discomfort that came hand-in-hand with the aftereffects of a nightmare, of a panic attack— the man placed his right hand lightly on the rigid stretch of Steve's left shoulder and squeezed.

Bucky tugged on Steve, made a move to pull him close. "Stevie, baby," he muttered, quiet and calming, "You had a nightmare." He didn't need to be told, he knew.

Steve flinched under Bucky's touch. His body involuntarily tensed at the contact, brief as it was.

In this state, distant and vulnerable, Steve wanted to be able to melt into the heat of the touch. He wanted it to ground him and calm his anxiety, wanted more than anything for it to be like that faraway time Steve could only bring himself to think of as _before_. But it didn't, and it wasn't.   
Now, all it was was another sensation Steve was not in the best mental space to process. If he hadn't been so focused on his counting, absently tapping a finger against the counter, Steve would have been grateful that Bucky had been around long enough to have seen Steve in most of his worst moments— that Bucky had readily dropped his hand and stepped away.

He nodded, a despondent rise and drop of his head.

Too long had passed since Steve had last had the presence of another warm body beside him; a living, breathing, caring body.   
If he were to turn towards Bucky and tighten his tired arms around the other man's waist, bury his face into the crook of his neck, Steve could easily blame it on a loss of rational thought brought on by pain. Easily dust it off, forget about it afterwards. But he wouldn't; couldn't so much as bring himself to touch Bucky.

The silence, disturbed only by Steve's laboured breathing, stretched on between them.

"You're bleeding," Bucky observed flatly, an emotionless monotone when really he was brimming with concern, attempting to draw Steve out of his own head and into any form of conversation.

"What?" Steve asked gruffly; brow furrowed, confusion evident.

His eyes flickered to his leg, where Bucky had half-heartedly gestured. At the sight of the thin, red gash sliced along the length of his exposed left calf, Steve started.

In his rush to get out of the suffocating confines of his room, Steve hadn't realized he'd been hurt. Had not even felt the stinging pain that, now he knew he should feel it, coursed through him.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, let out a quivering breath and willed himself to hold back the tears pricking at the corners of his brightly shining eyes.

"Sit down, Stevie," Bucky ordered, masking it well in the form of a suggestion, the familiar endearment falling easily from his lips.

Robotically, Steve nodded. Giving in to Bucky. Too tired to stand his ground for any longer he slumped into the nearest seat he could reach at the counter. With a huff, he dropped his head to rest heavily in the palms of his sweaty hands.

Hard as it was to admit it, it was all too much. Like Atlas, carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders; too much. He didn't believe he was strong enough to do this even another day, not anymore.

Being a single father. Stuck in a job he wasn't entirely happy with. Having Bucky back in his life, a constant reminder of every single thing he was trying to forget. He wasn't sure how much longer he could handle it.

Bucky set a mug of black tea in front of Steve— his favourite mug, Steve managed to drag himself enough through the thick fog that had fallen over him, to notice.

"Here," Bucky urged, a hushed utterance that worked to successfully draw Steve's attention.

"Thanks," Steve mumbled groggily, nodding at nobody and nothing in particular.

Gravitating to Steve's side, Bucky hovered protectively.

"Lemme patch you up, Stevie," Bucky offered, "Where's ya first-aid kit?"

"Leave it," Steve ordered, harsher than he had intended to sound. He cleared his throat before he continued, exhaustion lacing each of his words. "Just... Just leave it, Buck. Please."

"Don't be like that, Stevie, baby," Bucky urged, not catching himself when he fell easily into old routines. "It won't take me long. Two minutes, maybe."

"I'm fine, _okay_? I don't need you to baby me. To look after me," Steve insisted, fueled by frustration and a slow burning ire that bubbled just beneath the surface. "I'll sort my self out. _Let it go_."

Bucky kept his eyes on Steve, casting an assessing gaze over the man. Despite himself, despite everything inside him that told him to insist, Bucky nodded; agreed and backed down.

He took a reluctant step away from Steve and found his way to a vacant seat across the counter.

"You had a nightmare," Bucky repeated. A statement, not a question.

Brokenly, rough and uneven at the edges, Steve muttered, "Yeah."

He wrapped shaking hands around the mug, cloudy and nearer to a shade of green than to blue after having been painted on so many times, and allowed himself to sink into the seeping warmth that emanated from it. The sensation calmed him; settled him, if only by a little bit.

"Was it..." Bucky began unsteadily, pausing to look towards Steve. "Was it about _him?“_

_Godless_ _children—_ the first words that flashed through Steve's mind.

Steve stilled. Cold, hard memories rushed mercilessly through his mind, each in quick succession of the others.

_Cement floors, sealed off rooms, large prayer circles and bruised knees._ _Terror and anger._

He strengthened his grip around the width of the old cup, tips of his fingers brushing together.

_Was it about_ ** _him_** _?_ Bucky had asked, broaching the topic cautiously. _Yes_. _It always was._

"It's all because of you, y'know?" Steve uttered venomously. Quick flash of anger overtaking any remnants of Steve's exhaustion that still lurked. "I care about you, Bucky, but every time you come back it... messes me up. The last time, when Tony was around. _This time."_ He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled.

"Really?" Bucky scoffed, "You say you care about me, but then you do _this."_

Steve blinked at the volume of Bucky's voice, startled. He shot a quick glance down the passageway towards the closed door of Peter's room.

Voice pitched low in warning, Steve muttered, " _This_ isn't me doing anything. You remind me so much of _that_ time... It's hard."

"Do you want me to apologize—" Bucky began.

"No. Okay? " Steve cut in abruptly, holding a hand up to stop Bucky.

"'Cause I wasn't going to," Bucky continued, speaking over him, "And I won't."

Humourlessly, Steve laughed. "I know you won't... It's just that all this time I've been fine. Nine years and _I've been_ _fine_ — more than fine, in fact. I haven't thought of it at all over these last few years. But now you're back and it's all I seem to think about."

He paused to exhale noisily, running his tongue over his bottom, painfully chapped and dry.

"I can't..." Steve gathered himself, "I can't even concentrate on my son— _my own son_. Y'know what a shitty parent that makes me?" He ran a hand over his face, choking back a shallow gasp. "It's messing me up. _You_ being _here_ is messing me up. It's fucking with my head."

Bucky scratched thoughtlessly at the back of his left hand. Staring fiercely at Steve, he willed the man to look back up at him. To meet his eyes as he cussed at him.

Steve, glared into the depths of his murky mug of tea as if it held secrets of the future.

"You can't just do this all the time, Steve," Bucky said, cautious yet burning with an anger he had to remind himself to keep in check. "You ignore, and ignore, and _ignore_. You bury all your problems 'cause you think that's better than confronting it. But it doesn't work—"

"It's been working fine for me—"

"You're deluding yourself!" Bucky all but yelled, a network of thick angry veins popped from his neck, slamming his palms flat against the tabletop. "It doesn't work. I know that it doesn't work, Steve. I know, and you know it, too. And when you're forced to remember all that shit again, you look for the first person you can blame. And that person _always_ happens to be me."

"Don't lecture me," Steve argued, turning a wilting glare on Bucky. "Don't you dare lecture me. You have no right to spit—" he exhaled angrily. "To spit all this out at me. To act like you know a Goddamn thing about _anything_."

From either side of the counter, they stared fiercely at each other. Anger smouldered behind darkened, rage-filled eyes.

"Fuck you, Rogers. _Fuck you_ ," Bucky hissed after a beat of silence. "I, out of everyone, have every right to lecture you. I was there, too. Fucking remember that— _I was there, too_."

"Stop, Bucky. _Please_. I can't do this right now— not with everything that's happening with Pete," Steve insisted breathlessly, exhaling a large breath of air. "I can't— I can't do this right now."

"Exactly," Bucky said, considerably lowering his voice. He laid his hand a finger's breadth away from where Steve's sat. "You _always_ say that. You _always_ can't talk about it. You're too busy. Too tired. Too stressed. And look at you— it's killing you. It's eatin' you alive."

Steve clenched his jaw, worked it viciously to stop himself from squeezing his eyes shut. To stop himself from pressing his knuckles hard enough into his eyes until he saw spots.

"I'm doing great," Steve said, his voice strangled, "Or, at least, I _was_ doing great before all this. I can't— When you're not here it's different. _I'm_ different." He let out a shaky breath and, grasping for something to say, repeated an empty sentiment, "You, being here, it's messing me up."

Bucky's hand inched back from where he had rested it. His fingers toyed at the hem of the long left sleeve, stopping just at the taper of his wrist.

The silence sat heavily in the room; a physical presence. Both a thunderous roar, and a deafening noiselessness.

"If you want me to leave, I'll leave," Bucky offered quietly.

Steve snapped his head up to look at Bucky. Barely noticeable was the tender furrow of Steve's brow as he traced the serious set of the other man's features, dumbfounded at the idea that Bucky would even make such a proposal.

He shook his slowly before he answered. "Bucky, no. I don't want you to leave. I just want—" Steve paused, swallowing audibly he lowered his eyes for a brief few seconds. He cracked the barest whisper of a smile— sadness dancing in its each crooked line, and living in each splendid curve— and met Bucky's gaze. "I just want things to be normal."

Not even batting an eyelash at the confession, Bucky nodded.

"Me, too," Bucky muttered, cracking a sweet smile of his own, "But, when have things ever been normal. Especially between you and me."

Dipping his head, a tiny smile dancing across his lips, Steve nodded his agreement. He breathed out a hushed chuckle, "That's a good point."

Steve sipped on the cup of tea, appreciative of the simple distraction. Thankful, as well, that their argument had given it enough time to cool down. "Thanks," he said softly, nodding his head towards it.

Under his breath, Bucky hummed distractedly. "What're you gonna do?" Bucky asked, ignoring Steve's expel of gratitude— whether on purpose or not, Steve couldn't tell.

"What am I gonna do about what?" Steve asked smoothly, he feigned ignorance yet his body bristled on the edge of discomfort; stalling, knowing exactly what Bucky had been referring to.

"I've been thinking a lot, Steve," Bucky continued. "Thinking about you, about Peter... What're you gonna do about Alex—?"

"Don't say his name," Steve ordered gruffly, terse as he halted Bucky from going any further.

The hostile glare that Bucky directed Steve's way— probing, soul-searching— said more than Bucky could have ever brought himself to say.

Steve's reaction all but proved the man's earlier points for him; as much as Steve distracted himself from his past, he never confronted it, and he'd never be able to deal with it.

"About _him_?" Bucky pronounced carefully, inching forward as steadily as he could. "About father?"

Of all the habits Bucky had, through earth-shattering effort, broken, he could not really fall out of using the familiar term: _father._

"I don't know," Steve answered helplessly. "I don't know anything."

A second of loaded quiet passed, Bucky assessing Steve questioningly. "I mean, sure, he's still got quite a few years behind bars. But if it was _this_ easy for me to find you... Imagine how much easier it'll be for him."

Biting down on his bottom lip, Steve reveled in the sudden, searing pain.

"Who's to say he will?" he asked, posing a rhetoric. "Who's to say he'll even wanna see me?"

Bucky leaned forward, whispered, "You were always his favourite, Stevie. It killed him when you left, did you know that? It drove him crazy. You really think he's not gonna go searching for you?"

"He didn't do it before," Steve reasoned.

"Yeah," Bucky dismissed with a scoff, "And you ever wonder why?"

Steve shrugged, feigning practiced nonchalance even as genuine terror gripped firmly ahold of him.

He stared darkly ahead of him, shadows danced behind his eyes and painted the hollows of his face in gloom.

"Ten more years," he muttered murkily, "Ten more years— Peter'll be twenty-one and he'll be away from here. I don't care about me, Bucky. He can find me again, I _don't_ care. I just don't want him around Peter— I've never wanted him around Peter."

Quietly, Bucky agreed, "Neither have I."

Blunt, torn nails scratched at the tabletop. Steve picked at an isolated spot of dirt, dried bread crumbs glued to the varnished wood, and nodded.

Words did not exist to explain how drained Steve was. Painfully exhausted.

The years, unforgiving as they had been, piled upon him. Atlas, burdened with his unpardoning load.

 

°     °     °

 

"You look like crap," Natasha noted flatly, breezing airily into Steve's little studio.

Steve pushed away the pocket notebook he had been scribbling in, doodling halfhearted drawings of Peter instead of writing; one of the few he kept in and around the studio, or kept on him.

"Thanks," Steve grunted, leaning back in the swivel chair and gazed up at Natasha. "Didn't sleep too well," he explained with a shrug, running a heavy-knuckled hand over eyes laden with purple bags.

"I can see that," Natasha said drily. She raised a pointed, shaped eyebrow and nodded towards the polystyrene cup of coffee she slid across the desk, "It's why I brought you this."

Loudly, he sighed; a non-verbal show of his gratitude. He muttered his appreciation and swallowed back a large sip of the much welcome dark roast. Strong and bitter, burning as it made its way down his throat, exactly what he needed to wake him up.

Distractedly, Natasha fingered the soft curled edges of a sample frame— dull gold, stamped with an intricate twining of vines and leaves— placed near the edge of Steve's cluttered desk. Seeming to be deep in thought.

"You closed up for a bit?" Steve asked, eyeing Natasha enquiringly.

It used to be something they would often do, especially on those days when business would be far from booming. Closing their respective businesses for about half an hour had not just been a great way to pass the time, it had also been a therapy of sorts.   
Had allowed them time to immerse themselves in something other than how slow business was, or exactly how much money they weren't making, or how they would have to improve sales so that they would be able to pay rents and debts and loans.

In recent weeks, neither Steve nor Natasha had been able to close up for that long. It was a good sign, meaning that business was doing well for them both, but it also meant they barely spent any time together.

"Nope," Natasha said, folding her arms and leaning her weight against Steve's desk, "I got Clint to cover for me."

Steve cocked an eyebrow in query at Natasha, lips quirking in an off-kilter grin. "You left Clint alone? With your _bakery_?"

"Yes, I did. You wouldn't believe it when you first meet him, but Clint's really—" Natasha began coolly, waving a hand as she searched for the right word, " _Capable._ He seems a bit uninterested, but he's capable."

"Wow, you're really flying with all the compliments today, aren't you?" he teased, laughing easily.

"What can I say, I'm feeling positively peachy," she rolled her eyes and deadpanned with the barest hint of a smile dancing across lightly glossed lips.

"I can tell," he chuckled.

Lightning quick, Natasha's demeanour shifted— from teasing to serious in mere seconds as she leaned closer to Steve and spoke, "Now, Rogers, tell me— what's the deal?

"What's the deal with what?"

"With you," Natasha elaborated. "I meant it when I said you look like crap."

With a half-shrug, Steve repeated himself, "I haven't slept." Matter-of-fact.

Natasha directed a curious stare over Steve— large frame hunched into a black, cushioned swivel chair, anxiously tapping a cheap yellow pencil against his jean-covered thigh— her mouth pursed as she appraised him. As she read him easily.

"You sorted all that stuff out with Peter?" she asked, expertly diverting conversation on a route that would get her all the answers without having to ask any direct questions. Otherwise, it would be an endless, pointless, circle of _I'm_ _fine'_ s and _don't worry about it's_. "Are those kids still bullying him? Does he need his Aunty Nat to show her face at his school?"

Steve barked out a short laugh. Controlling himself, he raised an eyebrow at Natasha. "What are you gonna do? Roundhouse kick a twelve-year-old in the face? I'm no lawyer, but I'm seventy percent sure that's illegal."

"Tell me you're handling it, or I will," Natasha threatened seriously, face drawn in a trenchant frown but her eyes shining with mischief, with concern. "After all, there _is_ a thirty percent chance that it isn't illegal."

Absentmindedly, he continued to tap the pencil against his thigh as he thought about the events that had unfolded at Peter's school mere days ago.

"I'm _trying_ to handle it," he explained. "I went down to Peter's school to see Mr Banner, y'know, his principal. But, Pete— I think he takes after me a bit too much— he refused to say anything— was adamant about it. He kept insisting that he didn't know their names, that they were older kids and he didn't recognize them, that even if he did know it wouldn't be fair to just rat them out like that. Fuck. I swear, that boy's too pure even for his own good."

"You're a lot more tense than you usually are," Natasha noted, diverting. "And that's saying something. You're the most uptight person I know."

Steve let out a dry, hollow chuckle. He ran a hand through his unruly locks of long hair, unbrushed and falling into his eyes.  "What can I say? I haven't been laid in a few months... Years." For a few moments he would take the bait Natasha had handed him; would let himself be lead away from this conversation.

"Is that an invitation?" Natasha joked, raised both her left eyebrow and the left corner of her mouth in a playful, seductive smirk. She dropped her hands to rest lightly on the swell of her hips.

Steve barked out another laugh, not unwelcome to the idea. "Just like old times, huh?" He asked.

He remembered, all too vividly, the sensation of bare skin against bare skin. Lips meeting hungrily, desperately. Bodies joining in heated passion.

Sex. Passionate, burning. Two people brewing in layers of pain, of hurt, of emptiness; allowing themselves to, for a few breathtaking hours, drown in solid, unbridled wanting.

Sex. Casual; between friends. Sex, not love.

Natasha smiled wryly, fondly, seeming to know exactly what was going on in Steve's mind. "We had some good times, didn't we?"

"We did."

He picked at the hem of his fitted sweater, unable to stop the slow smile from crossing his face at the memory. The intimacy shared between him and Natasha.

"I'm no good with kids, Steve. Or the whole advice thing— unless you want a selection of random metaphors thrown together for you to decipher," Natasha pointed out, reigning the conversation back in.

Steve stared at Natasha. "You're kidding right? You're great with kids... And advice, too."

"You're a mess, so _maybe_ you should be the last person making any kind of observations," Natasha said with a shrug, "But I'm still accepting your kind words."

"Again, I am loving all these compliments from you."

Breathing out a low chuckle, Natasha nodded. She ran a hand, slight and covered in fading bruises, through red hair. "I have more," she said. Dark eyes, shining a deep green under the lights of the studio, Natasha continued after a pause, "So, what are we waiting for? Aren't we going to take this party to the cute little break room I helped you decorate?"

"Sex doesn't solve everything."

"Hm," Natasha hummed, short, and in a way that made it obvious she did not share the sentiment. Her shoulders raised in a heavy shrug. "In my experience, it solves most of everything."

"Or maybe you just have an unhealthy coping mechanism," Steve offered.

"Maybe I do," she admitted. "Though are you even one to talk? Mr Let Me See How Many Tall Buildings I Can Jump Over Before I Die." Natasha rolled her eyes, mouth pursed in a slim pink line as her unwavering gaze landed on Steve.

Steve shuddered in exaggeration. He raised a finger before he spoke, the extended index finger seemed to emphasize each of his words, "It's called living life on the edge."

Natasha scoffed openly, disdain evident in the pools if her eyes. "So, Peter," she urged gently, "What's going on with him?"

Tiredly, he rubbed away at his eyes. "You didn't see him, Nat," Steve said. "He was _hurting._ In so much of pain, all 'cause some kids were calling him a _mistake,_ an _abomination._ And you know why? 'Cause of me, 'cause of Tony. 'Cause some stupid, homophobic parent still has it out for our little family, even after all these years.

Natasha hummed, nodding slowly. "Suburban families," she said, mild distaste enriching each word as she all but spat it out, "They love to chatter."

"That, they do," he readily agreed, hitting the pencil against his leg at a more rapid speed. "But, it's just, why Peter, y'know? Come after me. _Hurt_ me. Do whatever the fuck you want, but do it to _me._ Don't bring Peter, my beautiful, innocent child, into it. He doesn't deserve any of this."

"Remember," Natasha began, not missing a beat, "Remember when Peter was six, and you and Tony would bring him to visit my ' _bakery'."_

She laughed, making air quotes around the word _bakery—_ at the time, it had been little more than a miniscule kitchen in a one bedroom apartment. Hardly enough space for a single person to move around in.

"Yeah," Steve nodded, the memory returning and washing over him with an all-encompassing warmth. "What was it we used to call it, again? Bake dates?"

Silently, Natasha nodded, pausing to think back before she could continue. "He was so well behaved, remember. Used to sit quietly and mix the batter, or ice whatever little cake I gave him."

"He always made a mess, though," Steve recalled, smiling fondly.

As it often turned out when it came to Natasha, Steve was unsure of the exact point of remembering the particular series of events. There may have been no point— memory brought forward simply as a means to distract him.

"Always," Natasha agreed, shaking her head slightly. "No matter how hard he tried to keep everything in the bowl or plate, or on the table, he couldn't stop himself from making a mess."

"He hated it so much, he'd try every way possible to keep it neat and all in one place," Steve added.

Absently, Natasha nodded and smiled. "You see, Steve, some things just happen no matter how much we try to fight against it. They happen, and they're out of our control. We try to keep our worlds contained— icing inside the bowl. Keep them safe and secure; beautiful, innocent. But we can't. Messes get made, icing splatters. We can't stop it. "

"You're telling me that I can't keep Peter safe forever, in your own simplistic way, aren't you? That I can't keep him a child forever?" he asked, exhaling loudly at Natasha's noncommittal shrug.

Natasha turned her lips down in an exaggerated frown, comical if not for their conversation. "I told you I'm no good at the advice thing," she said. "I gave you the metaphor I promised. It's up for interpretation."

Depthless eyes stared blankly at Natasha. Shone with a layer of tears, unshed and unwelcome; he had never been much of a crier. He blamed parenthood for softening him.

His voice, a quiet murmur, Steve said, "He's only _twelve,_ Nat. I've got to at least try to keep him away from the shitstorm that is this world."

Natasha lifted her shoulders in a fluid shrug, languidly she pushed herself off and away from the large desk.

She dipped long fingers, nails painted in a layer of peeling red polish, and plucked a handful of assorted chocolate-dipped sweets from the glass jar Steve kept filled to the brim and at the edge of the glass-topped table.

"You do what you gotta do, Rogers," Natasha said, popping one of the freshly unwrapped sweets into her mouth and pocketing the rest of them. "Speaking of, I gotta run. Clint may be capable, but I still don't trust him not to burn my baby down to the ground."

She said it all with a shake of her head, mouth turned down at the corners in a cutting grimace; amused by her assistant, even if she wouldn't say so. Clint seemed to be growing on her.

Natasha spun smoothly on her sneakered heel, raising a hand to wave goodbye at Steve over her shoulder.

Blankly, Steve watched as Natasha made the short trip from him to the door. Numb as he focused on absorbing everything she had said— about messes being made that nobody could control, about being unable to always keep worlds beautiful and pedestrian.

The soft tinkling of the doorframe as it hit against the small brass bell rang throughout the space, snapping Steve back to a sudden attention.

"Bucky's back," he blurted out, unthinking.

Her hand— slim, knuckles painted with light bruises— steadied on the jamb of the door, halfway in and halfway out, Natasha halted.

She turned her head to take a look at Steve over her slender, coat-covered shoulder.

Voice hollow and low as she met Steve's eyes from across the small room, Natasha murmured, "Shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I started to put together a bit of a side story of one-shots (flashbacks, background stories, fillers, etc) would anybody be interested?  
> I ask 'cause I'm thinking of doing something Christmas related from maybe four/five years ago.
> 
> ._._._.
> 
> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on Tumblr at [aycebasketcase](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aycebasketcase)


	6. A Broken Youth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The previous chapter, whilst not completely changed or rewritten, has been edited/added to. If you've read it before I'd suggest you read it again ♡
> 
> I'm 14 days late but Happy New Year, Jellybeans (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

He is a child. Blue eyes shine bright from the surface of an untouched, unharmed face.

He is a child. A smile scrunches his eyes, reveals a set of crooked, missing teeth.

He is a child. A laugh wracks easily through his body, rumbles through him during hours of reckless play, at the sound of silly jokes.

He is a child. A careful, carefree child, unashamed of affection, of running into outstretched arms and being pulled into a mother's warm hug.

He is a child. Nine-years-old. Barely even a person.

He is a child, and he is alone.

There are no soft hands to beckon for Steve. No hands to reach out to hold his. No open arms to gather him in, to welcome him home, to hold him. No scent of lilac, of lemongrass, of coffee, as he buries his face into the softness of his mother's chest, breathed in the fragrance clinging to her clothes; _her_ fragrance.

There is no scent of freshly baked cookies— cocoa, cinnamon, ginger — to fill the walls of a home.

There are no midnight whispers; his mother sneaking under his sheets, a plate of brownies and a flashlight in each of her hands. No more giggles as mother and son trade stories, secrets, anecdotes, under a roughly put together blanket fort. No cuddling close and reading from the pages of a novel.

There are no more days together. No more nights. No more of Sarah's slight hands tucking Steve into bed. No more gentle kisses.

Sarah is gone— an unpredictable wind blown through the city, ruffled everything it touched, gone as soon as it had come.

Sarah is gone— her memory burns, refuses to fade.

Steve is a child, and has never felt so lost in his life.

The days which follow are a rush of him never knowing up from down. Of struggling to keep his head above the waters of grief as they threaten to pull him under, to drown him.

Piece by piece his home is pulled apart. He watches— pain shooting through his chest, clenching his stomach into a tight ball— as everything he has ever known is packed into box after box. His life, his mother's life, hidden away into the confines of a storage unit.

Piece by piece he is pulled apart. Bits of him, taken by strangers offering condolences. Strangers who gush over how much they loved his mother. Strangers he wants nothing more to do with.

Piece by piece Steve is pulled apart, shattered. And, then, he is alone.

He has heard before— briefly, never paying too much attention to it— about grief. About loss. At eight-years-old he is too young to have ever granted it much contemplation; other than the barest thought, the conversations he shared with Sarah about the inevitable, he has ignored it. Pushed it into the far corners of his mind, to places where he will not be forced to face it.

The grief, it is indescribable. Both a nothingness, an emptiness, and a physical weight. It fills him, lives in the space beside his heart, is a headache that is a constant behind his eyes. It is a load, an encumbrance, which settles on his shoulders and keeps him adhered to the floor.  
If there are words to describe the unwavering sensation of breathlessness, of standing right at the edge of a cliff, he does not know them.

 

"Name's Bucky," the boy introduces himself cheerfully, left hand reached out in front of him.

Twelve-years-old and brimming with anger, with hatred— a nemesism turned inward, projected outward. "Yeah," Steve scoffs, bony knees drawn up to his chest, "That's the stupidest name I've ever heard."

"It's James, actually," Bucky says, grinning widely as he flops onto the bed beside Steve's. "But my friend's all call me Bucky."

"Good for you, James."

The boy, Bucky, doesn't flinch. Doesn't roll his eyes or cuss. Doesn't lose the easy smile that dances across his lips, livens the room. Doesn't behave at all like Steve would have.

But Steve knows how this will work; as soon as he gets close to anyone, makes a friend, he'll find a way to mess everything up.  
He fights, he swears, he destroys; he is a walking timebomb, counting down to a moment— any moment— where he will self-destruct.

Nobody wants a child like him.

A child, twelve-years-old and brimming with anger. Anger that is only thinly veiled sadness.

Five years have passed, he has lived in more places than he would like to admit.

Group homes, sharing a room with five other boy; foster homes, some welcoming, some not so. Places he has almost been able to settle in, almost been able to call it a home; places where he has hated every single second he has spent there.

Five years and, even surrounded by people, Steve has always been on his own.

 

"Here," Bucky says, setting a plate of food on the bedside table. "Pierce said you can have your lunch up here today."

Steve nods, a stony jerk of his head in acknowledgement. "Thanks... James," he murmurs, poking mindlessly at the rolling peas falling from the stacked, toasted sandwich.

"You're welcome, I made it myself," he answers, taking a seat on his own bed, legs akimbo as he faces Steve.

"It's nice."

"Yeah. Glad you're enjoying it," he says, pauses. "You'll have to have dinner with us, though. Downstairs. Father said so."

The boy— dark hair parted neatly on the left and combed back, wears a light blue, buttoned-up shirt over a pair of loose slacks, and a pair of gently used sneakers— stares at Steve, refuses to look away.

Under the intensity of the gaze, Steve can feel as his skin crawls. Uncomfortable in a way he never is. "I don't like peas," Steve says, picking out peas from the sandwich.

"Don't let father hear that." The words are sharp, dark as a shadow crosses Bucky's face. "Don't complain about the food; it is a gift from God."

 

Alex Pierce— tall, middle-aged, hair the colour of sea sand. Side-by-side, him and Bucky are almost identical. The clothes add to the illusion, Steve knows this, but the resemblance between them is uncanny; is utterly terrifying.

Alex Pierce— sparkling eyes, stern voice, kind smile. He is the father Steve has not had; has not known he wanted, needed.

Silver-tongued, he coerces laughs and smiles from Steve. Compels forth stories of the boys childhood, stories of himself.

And the days, one after another, pass. A blur, a pleasant rush of the mundane.

For the first time in a long time, Steve finds himself enjoying life. Enjoying simple pleasures; walking through the expanse of forest which stretches and curls around the aged property, lounging in the manicured grass of the backyard, perusing the titles in the large library, going out on day trips as a sort-of family.

For the first time in a long time, Steve can feel himself falling into absolute completion.

 

"James?" Steve calls out.

He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, at star and planet-shaped stickers glowing in the dark.

"Hm."

"How long've you been here?" he asks, "How old were you when you came?"

The silence lasts barely even a beat of a second. Yet it is deafening. It is long enough for Steve to wonder if he has overstepped, if he has somehow crossed a line.

"All my life, basically," Bucky answers— and Steve can't see it, but he can hear the shrug in his voice. "I was five when he first took me in."

Questions settle on the tip of his tongue; curiosity at the circumstances surrounding Bucky's early childhood. Steve could ask, he doubts Bucky would bite at him if he did so, but he knows how annoying it gets to be assaulted with queries. How tiring it is.

"Is it always this good here?" Steve asks instead, sceptical.

A rustle sounds from the other side if the room— covers shifting noisily in the near silence as Bucky turns over in his bed, springs creaking lightly underneath him. His voice is gruff, tired, dropped low as he speaks, "Yeah. It is. It always is, when someone new comes." He clears his throat with a cough. "Go to bed, Steve."

 

There are others, too. Hollow-eyed children with tired smiles who wander the rooms of the spacious house.  
Eerily quiet, they fill the house with a whisper of noise. They are a layer of muffled sound; uncharacteristic in their almost perfect noiselessness.

They are hushed and polite. Boys and girls dressed identically, behaved identically. Steve hardly though it was healthy.

The more time Steve spends with them, the more he fears he will become like them; mindless, restrained, peaceful as sheep. It is a fear that grips severely at him.

 

"I don't believe in the moon," Steve says to Bucky, thirsty for a reaction.

They sit beside a river, one which flows calmly through the forest, perched on large rocks embedded in the bed. It has been three weeks— two weeks of haunting these walls, of conversationless  dinners, of keen observation.

The tension in the house is a constant; has thickened gradually over the past few days, thick enough to cut with a knife. It envelops the inhabitants and everything that they do. It is there when the _clank!_ of a teaspoon hitting against tile echoes in the rooms on the ground floor, it is there at meals when they seat around the table, it is there in every conversation, in every silence.

"What?" Bucky asks, distracted as he pokes the surface of the slightly muddy water with a tree branch.

"I don't believe in the moon," he repeats, toeing the line innocently.

"Don't let father hear you say that," Bucky warns, as he always warns. "The moon is a gift from God."

Steve doesn't mutter a word more, doesn't ask another question. He can, he wants to, but he doesn't.

He nods and stores the information away, files it to be looked upon and picked apart later when he has a moment to himself.

Simple delusion is the only thing founding his discomfort, he thinks. This constant need to find fault in whatever home he's placed in. This, what he has chalked his anxiety up to; the sensation of tension which follows him.

Bucky does not do much to calm his fears.

 

Three weeks, slightly more than that, and everything begins to fall apart. It did not so much as shatter or splinter, but it is more like bright yellow paint peeling back to reveal the dark, broken building beneath it.

They seat for dinner along the sides of a long table spread with roasted chicken, with vegetables and freshly made cornbread, with juice made from fruit picked from the backyard.

Alex takes his place at the head of the table, seated before everybody else. On his left and across from Bucky, Steve takes his usual place.

A sharp elbow digs into his side. Steve grits his teeth and swallows down the urge to call out in pain.

He casts his eyes to the girl beside him, scoffs internally at her innocent smile. She is one half of a pair of eight-year-old twin sisters, Clara. Her sister, Sydney, sits next to Bucky. They are almost perfect reflections of each other; their curly brown hair clipped to the side with a simple barrette, hands clasped in their yellow, polka-dot dress covered laps, large white smiles. Almost convincingly sickeningly sweet.

Alone, at the end of the table, is a little boy. Glasses perched high on his freckled nose, Lukas is a frail sight. Six, and hardly ever murmuring a word, spending most of his time controlling the violent coughs journeying through his body.

They are seated in order of descending age, of descending importance.

Heads bow in prayer, Alex's rumbling voice rolls over them all as the blessing falls from his lips.

"How were you all today?" Alex asks, cutting into his food. He glances around the table, and lands on the blond-haired boy on his left. "Steven?"

Steve swallows down his own mouthful of the slightly dry chicken before speaking. "James and me spent the day by the river, watching the fish."

"James and I." Alex interjected.

"Pardon?"

" _James_. _And I_." Alex repeats sternly. "I'm not going to say it again, Steven."

" _James_ _and I_ spent the day by the river," he corrects himself. "We watched the fish."

Alex points the prongs of his fork at Steve, casts an intense gaze over the two boys beside him. "That's good. Nothing better than experiencing God's work, appreciating His green earth."

"Yes, father," Bucky agrees, speaking for both of them, eyes downcast.

 

Bucky's wardrobe seems to consist mostly of long-sleeved tees and shirts, Steve notices as he rifles through their shared cupboard. What does the boy wear in the summer?

A bloodstain, faint from rough washing, catches his eye. It stains the left sleeve of a light blue T-shirt hanging right in the back of the cupboard, hidden out of side. Steve stares at it intensely. Fingers the worn material absently as he ponders over it.

Soft footsteps sound on the other side of the door, pause for a second at the threshold before the person they belong to enters and closes the door behind them with a click.

"What are you doing?" Bucky asks. He leans casually against the open cupboard door, arms crossed against his chest, yet his voice is strained, accusing.

As if the sleeve has scalded him, Steve drops it and says, "Looking for something to wear to bed. All my clothes are in the laundry."

Laundry days are on Fridays, and Steve had slept in all his good pajamas.

"There's pajamas for you in the drawer, over there," Bucky informed Steve, "Father and I got some new ones for you today."

He takes a step back, murmurs an awkward thanks to Bucky.

A hand, surprise rough, placed lightly on the crook of his elbow halts Steve from advancing to the drawer standing in the corner of the room, between the cupboard and the lilac wall.

"What?" Violent as he shakes off the touch. He shoots Bucky a vicious glare, withering. "Don't touch me, James. I don't like it if it's without my permission."

Bucky retracts his hand without question. Steve turns to face Bucky, the anger dying down as cold eyes, dark in the light of the room, meet his. Fear dwells in the corners of the steel grey eyes, fear Bucky tries to mask; it plucks at Steve's chest, plants a seed of uncertainty in his own mind. For reasons he can't decipher, he is uneasy. He can feel his chest tighten, his breath catch in his throat.

Bucky averts his gaze. "Pierce wants to speak to you."

"What...?"

"Look, just nod your head, look concerned, say 'yes, sir' when he asks you anything," Bucky urges, ushering him out of the room. "Don't argue with him, Steve, please. Don't fight him about anything."

 

Thirteen-years-old and, taking a seat in front of this man, Steve can't remember ever having felt this terrified in his life.

"Steven," Alex begins, his smile wolfish, sharp. He relaxes in the broad armchair and casts his gaze over the boy.

"Sir. James said you wanted to speak to me."

Alex nods, agreeing. "You're right. It's been two weeks since you've been with us, living in our home. Hasn't it?" He asks the question, he does not intend for it to be answered. "Around this time, for each of the children, I decide it is important to sit down and have a conversation. It's important, Steven, isn't it? Open communication?" Alex nods slowly as he speaks, his smile unwavering as he stares at Steve.

"Yes, sir," Steve answers, realizing that now the man is waiting for an answer.

"I can tell you've enjoyed your time with us. You have, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You may have already noticed, Steven, but I run a tight ship. I feed, I shelter, I nourish. I do the absolute best that I can." Alex pauses, again waits for Steve to nod before he continues. "In the short time you've been here I have taken certain... _liberties_ when it comes to your discipline. But, you must know, I won't be doing that from now on. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." He wasn't sure he did.

Alex clasps his hands in his lap, leans forward. "Of course you understand. You're a brilliant boy, Steven. I knew from the moment I met you. It's why we chose you." He smiles, on another man it may have appeared fond, loving. On him it is sly, wicked, it sends shivers up Steve's spine. "There are rules in place. Certain rules which exist so that, like a well-oiled machine, we work perfectly. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir..."

His eyes spark as Steve nods, as Steve straightens his shoulders and swallows.

Steve knows as clearly as if he's been told this is the exact same speech the other children have gotten. He gulps and hopes the sound isn't as loud in the room as it is in his own head.

The rules are narrated slowly. Alex staring Steve down coolly as they are pointedly drilled into Steve's mind. Each one is explained. The reasoning behind them _could_ have been logical— _could have_ if it were not for how fanatical they were.

Not a single one makes sense to Steve, but he meets Alex's eyes and he nods. He could fight, could argue, but he remembers the warning giving to him by Bucky and forces himself to be calm. Surprises himself and is obedient as he agrees.

The man stands slowly and looms over Steve, the speech over. His movements are unrushed, assured as he reaches to grab a thick booklet from the low sidetable.

"There are rules, Steven," Alex says, handing the booklet to the boy. "They must be followed. They must be honoured and respected. And, if they are broken, there are repercussions. Do you understand?"

Steve inhales and gulps. "Yes, sir."

 

His eyes are keen. Skills of observation honed, practiced upon.  
Then again, bloodshot eyes and bleeding lips and purple lines around wrists are hard hide, harder to ignore.

Barely two months since his arrival— an eternity away now— and Steve can tell the signs. The dark cloud that descends over the house, the silence that rattles through it, the shushing, the scurrying, the opening and closing of the matte black door hidden away in the back and always kept locked.

Only two months, and Steve knows.

Bucky enters the room; quiet, as if the hushed trip has been made many times before. The room remains darkened, after midnight blackness fills the room.

Feigning sleep, Steve watches through squinted eyes as the older boy lowers himself slowly onto his bed.

Steve sits up as Bucky lays down, fully-clothed, shoes still on. "Hey, Bucky," he calls in a whisper. The familiarity of the nickname rolls of his tongue, strange after weeks of referring to him as James. "What's wrong? Where've you been?"

Curled up on his side, Bucky's back faces Steve.

"Lukas wouldn't go to sleep unless I stayed. He... He's scared of the Wolfman. Thinks it lives under his bed." Bucky speaks clearly, but Steve recognizes the sound of a voice as one tries to hold back tears; knows the sound of a voice choked with emotion. "I think Clara may have told him something."

Steve throws back the thick blanket, throws his legs over the side of the bed. "What's really going on? Are you sick? Is Lukas sick?"

"No," Bucky negates hoarsely. "Just... Just read the bloody rulebook, Steve. Go back to bed."

And he does. He goes back to bed without a further question. He follows the rules as best he can.

Not too long passes before he finds out exactly what lies behind the black door, below in the basement.  
Not too long passes before he has bleeding lips and bruises of his own.

He is a child. Blue eyes shine from unshed tears, from barely kept ire.

He is a child. A broken child.  
  



	7. Let Go of The Misery

Steve rarely ever allowed memories to hurt him, to get to him in such a way it left him suffocating, breathless. He spent years of his life growing this crystalline shell around himself, his body, mind and soul; perfecting his protective shield.

His skin crawled, itched uncomfortably and left him on edge. An urgency Steve couldn't explain enveloped him; took ahold of him and held him close, made him shake and jitter from a need to get moving, to run as fast as he was able to.

Bucky was just in the other room, like a clear picture breaking through static on an old television set, Steve remembered, suddenly and out of place. So close, all that separated them were little more a brick wall and a door. It wouldn't be much of a reach for him to knock quietly, to call Bucky out to him, or ask for entrance.   
The man's return may have caused Steve a burning, choking discomfort, but he couldn't even hide from himself how important Bucky was to him. Couldn't hide from himself that Bucky was probably the only person able to ground Steve when he fell into moods like this.

The thought, gone as soon as it had come, was a slap to Steve's face.

It's true what they say about misery, Steve thought sullenly. It was quick to envelop you, a thick and strangling blanket covering you from head to foot, tightening around your neck and pressing against your nose and mouth until breathing became difficult until, even with every gaping breath, all you can taste is the smothering blanket.

He gathered his thoughts, sure if he remained there any longer he would have been unable to stop himself from following through to Bucky's room.   
He gathered his thoughts, gathered his self, bowed his head, walked past the closed room door and to the sanctuary of his office, certain he didn't want to set into motion the sequence of events which would follow him turning to Bucky for support.

He inhaled deeply, held the breath until his chest burned, until his lungs felt close to bursting. And, slowly, he let it go. Let go of the breath; let go of the misery that sat coiled in the pit of his stomach, a snake readied to strike.

Shoulders dropped, he ran hands over an aged face. Fear that this exhaustion would become a default for him ran steadily through his mind.

What was he doing? Steve couldn't even answer the question for himself.

Fingers tightened around pencil and, like water flowing from a faucet of his despair, he began to write. For the first time in what might have been aeons, he began to write.

_Gods and Kings,_ he wrote. _He never did believe in Gods and Kings. Men placed in charge, made to govern society, to hold onto power, to rule for eternities._

Steve thought about dark brown eyes— brown eyes the colour of old brick, warm when touched by rays of light. Honey brown when in the sunlight.

_He never cared for the power granted from sitting on a throne— from sitting on a glorified chair. Men, raised to the power of Kings for the blood, same as all blood, running through their veins. Kings, raised to the power of Gods._

Steve thought about a smile, almost imperceptibly crooked. Smile crossing his face, drawing lines around the curve of his mouth.

_For all he_ _despised_ _them— these Gods among men— and he depised them with a burning fire, with an uncontrollable flame— he had been raised to be one of them._

Steve thought about the man he loved, the man he had lost. Of everything he had left behind. Of holding a tired boy in a dimmed room and whispering grandiose tales of a king.

_Forced upon the throne, no longer could he be the boy running barefoot and wild through the forest, the town, the stretch of a beach. Traded the feel of earth, of grass, of sand against his skin for stuffy rooms. No longer was he Tony— simply the King's unruly boy and nothing more— but Anthony. King Anthony._

Steve felt the misery, not just in the pit of his stomach any longer, but racing through his entire body. He felt the misery and wanted to let it go. He couldn't.

Instinctively, he sunk his teeth into the side of his hand. Dug teeth into his palm and the back of his hand; the only way he knew to stop himself from letting the roar, the sob, tear through him and through the silent house.

There was anger— dry and burning, a raging forest fire. There was grief— wet and drowning, a merciless sea in storm.

The pencil crashed loudly against the floor, clattered to a stop in the corner of the room, but he didn't remember throwing it.

The knock on the door was faint. Quiet enough for Steve to ignore it; to pretend he hadn't heard it and continue writing, if he so pleased. But the moment was gone, spell broken like glass thrown against concrete.

He stared in confusion around his study. Coughed lightly and cleared his throat, attempted to steady his breathing.

"Yeah," he acknowledged, wiping the saliva off his hand and slipping the notebook under a pile of loose papers. No more words would come to him, it would be painful to try.

"Don't you ever sleep?" Bucky asked— Steve couldn't see him, but he could hear the wicked, worried grin in his voice.

"I sleep enough," Steve argued flatly, without mirth or malice. The fact that his voice didn't shake as he spoke surprised him.

"Well, you look like death," Bucky noted, inviting himself into the office and bringing with him the strong scent of instant coffee. He placed the mug on the desk beside Steve, not caring to even glance around for a coaster. "You always look like death. Attractive death, but still."

Steve laughed hollowly. _It's fabulous work,_ he thought sarcastically, _being a writer._ Said, instead, "You always gonna do this?" He nodded at the coffee, at Bucky leaning, arms crossed, against the desk. "Wanna crack out the old maid's outfit, too?"

A quiet laugh rumbled through Bucky. He rolled his shoulders and dropped his head to his chest. "You'd like that wouldn't you."

Steve wondered if Bucky could sense, could feel, the cloying sadness in the room as much as Steve could.

He watched Bucky closely and, by the rigidity of his shoulders, Steve guessed he could. Bucky flickered his gaze to Steve's right hand, back to Steve's eyes as if he hadn't seen the reddened teeth marks in the fair skin. He knew Steve— and of the one, of many, unhealthy coping mechanisms he had; few much like Bucky's own— and wouldn't say anything.

"Not as much as you would." Steve sipped the coffee, still hot, burning his lips, his tongue, his throat as it made its way down. "I've been... thinking. About the past... About Alex."

Bucky hummed sharply, tightened his jaw and listened. Loose strands of dark hair, free from his ponytail, swung in his face as he inclined his head to the side to listen.

Fingers tapped against the desk in an unsteady staccato of rhythm, in an uneven tune.

"I'm going to visit Tony today," he said, "He helps clear my mind."

Bucky nodded his head and ran a hand through the hair, brushing back the tendrils of hair framing his face. "Yeah," he murmured.

"Yeah." Nothing more to say.

"Could I...?" he paused, awkwardly mid-sentence, "Come?"

Steve glided the point of a pencil, blunt and abandoned, laying forgotten on the desk until right then, over the corner of lined paper sticking out from underneath the pile of pages. Distractedly drawing a series of lines on the blank page, processing the question posed rather than answering impulsively.

Did he want Bucky there? he asked himself. Stepping foot into sanctuary? No. He didn't.

"It's more of a _me and Pete_ thing. You understand, don't you?" God, Steve hoped he understood.

Bucky raised his hands before him— half shrug, half a show of surrender. "Of course. Yeah, of course I understand, Steve. We all have our places, our safeties."

The breath Steve let out was one of relief; expelled, relieved his body of tension.

 

The bed creaked under his weight as he settled near the end of it, beside Peter. Soft sunlight filtered through the slightly parted curtains, dusted across the floor, the boy's forehead.

Steve placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, shook him lightly as he tried to wake him "Pete," he called softly, smiling as the boy stirred.

"Hm," Peter hummed, cracking an eye open— he was a light sleeper, as long as it was after six in the morning. He glanced at the alarm clock sitting on his bedside table. "It's too early." It was seven-fifteen. "I don't have school."

"Yes, buddy, I know," Steve said, smiling and holding in a laugh. He brushed hair out of Peter's eyes and continued, asking quietly, "You want to visit Papa today?"

That got the boy's attention. He opened both his eyes and stared up at Steve.

"Today?" he asked, groggy and with the scepticism territory of just waking.

Steve nodded. "Yup. If you want. Or you could spend the day with Harry, or Bucky."

"'Course I wanna visit Papa," Peter said, as if it were obvious.

It _was_ obvious.

"Okay, bud," Steve said. The smile curving his lips upwards was, like always, more than a little sad.

Pain, a permanent resident, pounded at his heart. The pain threatened to overwhelm him; in his sensitive state, if he remained in the presence of Peter for a second longer, it just might.

"You okay, Dad?" Peter asked, ever observant, sitting up slightly in bed and casting a critical look over Steve.

"Yea— Yes, Pete." He forced a smile and hoped it was convincing; or convincing enough, at least. "Just thinking."

Gently, he ruffled Peter's too long hair and stood from the bed with its painful groan every time anyone heavier than twenty pounds sat on it.

Dark brown eyes gazed up at him curiously, regarding Steve with unasked, unanswered, questions.

 

Hand-in-hand, Steve's large hand engulfing the small one in his, they walked through the gates of the cemetery.

Weak rays of sun shone, fought to be seen through the body of light grey clouds, over tended graves and a floor of ice.

In here, between gravestones, the outside didn't exist. This was a world all of its own; peaceful, punctuated by faint chirps of birds and light rustling of leaves instead of phones and voices and traffic. A world stuck in another life, another time; both pleasantly stagnant, and painfully so.

Peter walked a bit ahead of Steve, leading the winding way to Tony.

As they neared, Steve saw the flowers he had placed on the grave the last time he and Peter visited— a month ago, almost— were wilted, dead, brown more than at the edges. The groundskeeper usually cleaned up any old flowers. Steve wondered what had happened.

He gingerly squeezed Peter's hand when they stopped; it never did get any easier.

"Hey, Papa," Peter greeted in a hushed voice, pressing in close to Steve.

"Hi, Tony," Steve echoed, reluctantly letting go of Peter.

Silently, Steve began the minimal work of tending to the grave. He picked up the old, rotting flowers and wrapped them in the newspaper he had neatly folded and brought with him. He picked at the stray weeds which managed to grow through the frozen ground and watched Peter out of the corner of his eye.  
The boy sat cross-legged on the bare ground and faced his father's grave. Arms balanced on his knees and hands cupping his chin and jaw, Peter traced his eyes over the words etched into the gravestone— _Anthony Edward Stark. He loved and was_ _loved—_ written in full capitals.

"Harry and I are thinking of starting the Harry Potter books together," Peter began, updating his Papa on every event, mundane or not, he had missed, "He has a whole set already and Mr Osborn gave me a whole set of my own— it was a present, but I'm not sure for what exactly. Dad says they're good, but 'overrated' and that I shouldn't think too much about the movies when I read the books. I don't care; I know _you_ liked them, so they must be great."

Steve grinned to himself and resisted the urge to good-naturedly cluck his tongue at the apparent disregard for his opinions and feelings.

"There were some kids at school recently," Peter continued, suddenly a lot less full of life and laughter. "They didn't beat me up or anything. They didn't hurt me; not physically. It was just words, just things they said— It wasn't even really about me, it was about you and Dad. Stupid stuff that still really hurt, you know. But Dad came to school and they haven't bothered me since. So... It's okay... You don't have to worry about anything."

Steve sat down beside Peter; silent, listening, legs akimbo, mimicking the boy's cross-legged position except for his hands which he settled in the ground on either side of him.

Peter cleared his throat softly and continued, "Aunty Nat said she'd teach me how to fight—" Steve hadn't heard about that. "But I told her not to worry. I don't think I need to know how to fight, I wouldn't know how to use any of it anyway... Harry got really angry— You remember what he's like, don't you? He said that he'd never let it happen again, and I said that I didn't think any of his father's money would scare away some 12-year-old bullies. He laughed, but then he didn't talk to me for three days, so I don't think he found me as funny as I found myself."

Steve allowed himself a hushed chuckle and a slow shake of his head. He could imagine, almost perfectly, Tony sitting across from them, idly chatting and raucously laughing.

He missed him. God, how he missed him.

Steve turned to look at Peter, listened half-heartedly to anecdotes he had already heard— about school, and Harry, and a slightly older boy who had become a devout protector ever since Peter had been first picked on— and, for the first time ever, he realized he was grateful of how young Peter had been when Tony died.  
Of course it would have been better, a million times better, if Tony had lived. But it hadn't turned out that way, and Steve couldn't reverse time, and he was morbidly pleased that Peter had been young enough the pain wouldn't be as strong.  
More blurred edges than sharp points.

A finger prodded him in the ribs sharply; Peter dragging Steve out of his own head.

"Where'd you go?" Peter asked. The initiating question to an old game.

"Maui," Steve answered with the name of the first place that came to mind, "Somewhere where there's some sun. But I'm back now."

"Was it fun?" Peter drew his knees to his chest.

"No, Pete. It was boring without you," Steve replied. He threw an arm gently over Peter's shoulders and drew him close, pulling the boy into his side for a few seconds before loosening the hold. "Don't you have something else for Papa?" Steve urged.

Peter nodded slowly, enthusiasm muted, and disentangled himself from his father. He dusted off his pants as he stood, and, when he stood, he stared uncertainly at the grave with his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

He rocked forward on his heels, opened his mouth, closed it, as if searching for the right words to say.

"Dad and I, we made you something." From his pocket, Peter pulled out a small, tissue-paper wrapped parcel. He was careful as he unwrapped it to reveal a pair of white angel wings. Fragile, small enough to fit in the palm of Peter's hand. "We were going to give it to you next week, but we came today so I wanted to give it to you today. I hope you like it," he said quietly, placing the gift carefully beside the flowers, "We spent a lot of time on it. And it means a lot to me."

"You want to tell him why, Pete?" Steve encouraged, standing next to him. "Tell him why you wanted to make it?"

"Yes," Peter said, nodding robotically. "They're angel wings, Papa. I don't know if people really become angels when they die, but I think it'd be nice if you were one."

The words, heartbreaking in how easily they were uttered, settled and surrounded them. They were snatched by the wind and found a home in this cemetery, amongst words as shattering just like them.

Steve looked at Peter— _really_ looked at him— and saw himself as a child, standing for the final time in front of a mother he had been torn from and all but forbidden to ever visit again.   
He looked at Peter and saw a child— broken, but stronger than Steve ever would be. He saw a child he loved more than he had loved anyone else in his entire life.

A child he loved so much it hurt.

"Dad?" Peter called tentatively, wrapping a hand around Steve's hand, threading their fingers together.

"Hm."

"Will we still come back next week, like we planned to?" Peter asked with pleading eyes.

Steve nodded. "Of course."

Like clockwork, every tenth of every month, whatever day it landed on, Steve and Peter would visit Tony. Not even school or work was an excuse; the day was important enough to warrant an exception.  
He wasn't a favourite of many of Peter's teachers because of how many off days Steve allowed his son.   
It was okay. The last thing Steve cared about was what a few overworked, underpaid teachers thought about his, admittedly lackadaisical, parenting style.

So, he continued the tradition as not just an opportunity for Peter to speak to his late father, but for Steve and Peter to bond, too.

"Run ahead and throw this in the bin for me. Please," Steve said, handing the old flowers, wrapped in the crinkled newspaper, over to Peter.

"Sure," Peter said, reluctant.

Steve watched, waited, as the boy made his way through the maze of headstones with careful steps, respectful as he walked past around the graves.

He wrenched his gaze away from Peter and settled upon the cold-hardened ground before him. Heaving a quiet sigh, Steve lowered himself to a crouch, placing all his weight on his calves and the tips of his left-hand fingers on the ground.

He bowed his head as if in prayer. "Tony," Steve muttered. "Where do I even start?" He breathed out quietly, faint wisps of cold, condensed air dancing and disappearing before him. "Where do I even start? Bucky's back. Frick, I've said that same thing so many times in the last few days, I might as well print it out on cards. Hand it out every time someone asks 'what's wrong?', huh?"

His hollow laugh, devoid of humour, rang out loudly in the stillness around him. Like a child just learning to speak, learning the way language worked, Steve found himself at an utter loss for words.

What does one say to a ghost? To a person, in their absence? What would ever be sufficient?

"He says it's only for a few weeks, but I get the... strange feeling that it isn't," began Steve, running a hand over his face, "I need you. I don't know what I'm doing without you. What I'll do. Maybe I shouldn't make promises, but I _promise_ I won't let Peter go. No matter what happens, I won't let Peter go." Head bowed, voice grave; Steve made a solemn oath.

 

°     °     °

 

He drove back home in a comfortable silence. A silence disturbed only by the hushed radio segment playing in the background, disturbed by quiet snores from Peter asleep on the seat beside him.   
The day, while not necessary a busy one, had begun early. And, if he were in an such an emotionally drained state, he could only imagine how much more tired his son was.

Absently— attention divided between between crowded roads and a grey horizon promising rain, and Peter— Steve draped his worn leather jacket over Peter. The boy curled in on himself, smiled in his sleep and shielded himself from the cold underneath the jacket.

He drove over the uneven, tarred driveway, wary of jostling Peter awake as he parked in front of the quaint house.

Closing the door quietly behind him as he stepped out from the truck, he heard the satisfying crunch of a paved road underneath his sneakered feet. Steve breathed in deeply, he filled his lungs and savoured the special, indescribable scent that often seemed to cling to _home_ and nowhere else.

A curtain, shifting into place from behind the lounge window, caught Steve's attention. He knew he was being watched, could feel the set of eyes like pins pricking his skin.

Steve sighed quietly, tiredly; releasing the shallow breath he had taken in.

He made his way round the vehicle and, with hands steady from years of parenting and practice, Steve unbuckled the seatbelt holding Peter strapped secure in his seat.

"Hmph," Peter mumbled, eyes cracking open with an obvious effort. He rubbed at his sleep crusted eyes and looked up at Steve. "What?"

"Ssh... Ssh," Steve murmured, slinging the tote bag of last minute groceries over his shoulder. "It's okay, Pie. We're home. I'm just going to take you inside."

Peter yawned and smiled. "'Kay."

"Go back to sleep, Pete-pie."

Peter nodded and slipped his eyes shut, fell back against Steve. Steve slipped his arms around the boy and hoisted him from the seat. The curls of hair tickling Steve's nose, his chin and jaw, as Peter curled sleepily against Steve reminded him about the haircuts they were both supposed to have.  
Another problem for another day, he thought, kicking the door closed behind him and making his way up the short path.

The front door opened slowly for Steve. He smiled, grateful for not having to consider how exactly he would have to shift Peter to grab the house key from his back left pocket.

"Evening," Bucky greeted with a smile.

The flowery apron he wore wrapped around his waist made him seem sweet, almost dainty, in an alien way.

"This is a pleasant surprise," Steve teased, exhaling out a muted laugh and stepping around Bucky.

He took Bucky in, intently. His hair was freshly washed and pulled back in his go-to hairstyle, a nape-brushing ponytail, the stray strands which usually framed his face were held back by black hairclips.

The smell of herbs and spices, of fresh food, filled the walls of the house and attacked Steve pleasantly as he walked further inside.

He took in the bit of mess in the kitchen— flour-dusted surfaces, cutlery on the counter, stack of dishes in the sink— and raised an enquiring pair of fair eyebrows at Bucky.

"And what's all this?" Steve asked, adjusting Peter on his hip. He glanced briefly at Peter, surprised by the fact that the aroma of fresh food didn't stir the boy from his slumber.

"Nothing," Bucky shrugged it off. "I had nothing to do and... you know... Just happened to remember how much you enjoyed my lasagne."

"Thank you," Steve said, seriously, meeting Bucky's gaze; certain nothing he said before had been said with such earnest; sure that nobody had done something so simple, so meaningful for him in a long time.

"It's nothing."

Steve ignored the humble insistence, reached out his fingers until the tips just brushed Bucky's covered forearm. "I'm serious," he said, " _Thank you_."

A smile curled his lips upward. Underneath his facial hair, Steve liked to imagine the man was blushing. Bucky didn't do too well with accepting praise outside of intimate or erotic situations.

"Lemme take Peter, you can go clean yourself up or something," Bucky offered, reaching out to take ahold of the boy held in Steve's arms and stuck to his side.

Steve shook his head. "No. No, it's okay. It'll take me two minutes. He'll wake up if anyone else takes him."

"Oh, yeah, sure. Then I'll just sort all this out." He waved around him absently.

Steve shot Bucky a slow, grateful smile, and headed down the passage towards Peter's room. His step faltered and he paused, looked over his shoulder at the man standing in the kitchen, dishcloth in his hands.

"I mean it, Buck," Steve said, "Thank you. Nobody's done anything like this for me for a long time... These past few years, I've kinda only had myself to depend on. It means a lot."

He truly meant it, and seeing the bright smile cross the man's face made Steve happy he said it.

As he put Peter down for the nap he would wake up from in about half an hour, Steve felt that, for the moment, his fears— his niggling anxieties— could be put to rest.

Steve kissed Peter on his forehead and slipped into the kitchen to help Bucky finish cleaning up the mess he had made.

The talk was easy, laughter easier; Bucky sensing Steve's unease and knowing exactly what to say, how exactly to act. Working in harmony, with Steve directing Bucky around the kitchen.

All three of them sat down together for dinner, Peter not completely awake, but awake enough to tell Steve his lasagne didn't even compare to the one prepared by Bucky. A statement met with more laughter, with light teasing from Bucky offering to teach Steve how to make it.

Steve was still exhausted; he knew he always would be. But for the first time it didn't feel as heavy as it usually did, even after the tiring day he and Peter had.

 


	8. The Existence of Truer Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this posted yesterday, but I got distracted by Black Panther (which is incredible, please go watch it). So, in celebration of my birthday, have this update ♡

He found it strange, how easy it was for the three of them to fall into an easy routine. Strange how their schedules seemed to work around each other's effortlessly.

More than any of that— as difficult as it was to get used to— he found it strange to once again have help. To, after ages of fending for himself, have somebody he was able to depend on if he so chose to.

Steve was grateful for Bucky in more ways than he could ever explain.

It was so much more than being thankful for the money Bucky brought in. So much more than the rent he always paid on time, or the extra money he slipped into the envelope with that rent, or the groceries he bought without saying a word.   
On countless occasions, Peter napping and curled against his side or awake and running ahead, Steve would arrive home to find dinner made and the table laid. Or, he would leave for work, a washbasket filled to the brim with dirtied clothes, and return to find the laundry done.

So long had Steve been relying on himself, he'd forgotten what it felt like to have assistance— to have the kind of help and support a child, especially one as young as Peter, couldn't provide. To sleep without added stress.

The sharp ring of the alarm clock, for once, didn't wake Steve when it should. He threw an arm over his eyes, hid from the bright light slanting into the room and shining into his eyes from behind curtains forgotten to be drawn. He had overslept.

Soft laughter drifted into his room— muffled, high-toned giggle from Peter, and a deeper, gruffer laugh Steve could remember expecting to not hear again. He cocked his head and sleepily wished to once for that sweet unison of laughs; absolutely beautiful as they fluttered through the house, awoke a dormant home.

A gentle smile on his lips, Steve rolled over onto his side and burrowed his face into the plump, barely-used pillow beside his.

The part of him curious of what took place behind his bedroom doors, the source of the merriment, was overruled by the part of him thankful for a reason to sleep in on a Sunday. A few minutes more of sleep couldn't hurt.

 

"Wake up."

He swatted away the finger poking his cheek. "Hm," Steve grunted angrily, tiredly, screwing his eyes shut.

In that moment, aching for sleep, he was sixteen-years-old and longing for _just five more minutes_ on a Sunday morning. Longing for a sleep, undisturbed and undisrupted.

"C'mon, Dad," the voice— distantly familiar, the way everything is warped and distantly familiar in a dream or the aftereffects of it— whined. The finger moved from his cheek to the corner of his mouth, pushing it up and lifting it into a disturbed half-smile. "Wake up."

"What?" Steve grumbled and lazily cracked open his left eye.

Peter, eyes wide and smile even wider, leaned over Steve. His face close. He waved animatedly. "Morning, Dad," he said, too loud for a hardly awakened Steve, "I didn't think you could sleep 'til so late."

Awed at the quiet, genuine excitement in the boy's voice, and still in a daze, Steve glanced at the bedside clock. Ten o'clock, the unilluminated black numbers read. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept until so late in the day.

"Neither did I," he replied groggily.

He ran a hand over his face, wiped the sleep from his eyes and the spit collected in the corners of his mouth. Steve wasn't used to this— sleeping in so long; sleeping in at all— and couldn't yet decide if he were refreshed, or if he were more exhausted than before.

Yawning, Steve shifted in bed. Settled so he sat with his back against the solid headboard. He looked critically at Peter, seated cross-legged and covering a small yawn of his own, and frowned. "Still in your pj's?" Steve noted, "At this time of day?"

Peter shot him a look, both careful and cutting, which perfectly conveyed his thoughts on what Steve had said. But, instead of turning the words on Steve, and replying as Steve would— with a ' _Just waking up? At this time of day?'_ — Peter shrugged and said, simply and innocently, "Bucky said we deserve to take it easy. 'Cause it's a Sunday. We shouldn't do anything to strain ourselves."

"Changing out of your pajamas is hardly doing anything to strain yourself." Steve tickled Peter's stomach, covered in an old grey T-shirt picked up from a nature reserve, a faded white wolf on the front, in the center.

Peter giggled at the light touch, loud enough for it to be almost a squeal, and defensively hit his father's hand away. The sound, strangely high-pitched, renewed the laughing fit Steve had just about gotten over.

Shoving Steve away, Peter threw his arms above his head and dropped, leg still crossed beneath him, backwards onto the bed. Stomach rising as he attempted to catch his breath and swallow his laughter.

"I could pull a muscle," Peter said, diplomatic as always, "I could've pulled a muscle right now. Moving is hard work."

Steve stifled his laugh. "I bet it is."

" _It_ _is_ ," Peter insisted, face solemnly drawn, as he nodded.

Reaching to run his fingers through Peter's hair, mussing it into an even bigger mess, Steve smiled. Curls, growing back so soon after being trimmed, tangled into loose knots.

Steve wondered what he had ever managed to do to deserve Peter. Nothing. He had done absolutely nothing; it had been all luck, desperation, the need to pay a debt owed; the gods of old granting him with a blessing he had not earned.

Peter meant the absolute world to him. They'd lost Tony and, for the longest time, Steve had been paranoid about losing Peter, too. He'd clung to him, loved him so hard he'd been scared of pushing him away.   
At the end of the day, when night fell and Peter fell asleep with it and nothing existed to stop his thoughts from ambushing him, his love for Peter was the only thing which kept him alive.

The boy was an angel; Steve didn't deserve him. But, by God, did he wish to give him everything he could ever wish for.

He yawned loudly, and stretched. "I could go back to sleep," Steve muttered, glancing sideways at the clock. Neither hunger nor the need for the bathroom strong enough to get him out of his bed. Addressing Peter, stretched out beside him, Steve asked, "How about it, Pete-pie?" Want to just stay in and nap with the best dad in the world?"

Peter looked around him, asked dryly, "Where _is_ the best dad in the world?"

"Oh, you little snot." Steve grabbed for Peter, catching the boy before he could worm away and began tickling him savagely. Until Peter was laughing so hard tears pricked the corners of his eyes, ran down his cheeks.

"Okay," Peter breathed out, fighting to push at his father's hands. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I surrender."

At the call of his apology and surrender, Steve stole one last swipe at an underarm.

"For your sake, I'm choosing to ignore your earlier remark and ask again: do you want to stay in and nap? We could relax the whole day. Watch whatever show you're watching right now. Sleep. How about it?"

It sounded like the perfect day to Steve; free of obligations of any sorts.

"No," Peter said, moving so he sat upright. "I didn't wake you up just so you can go back to sleep." He stated it with narrowed eyes and pursed, slightly downturned, lips— it was an expression Bucky often wore. Steve couldn't decide if he was glad or troubled the man had begun to rub off on Peter.

"No?" Steve echoed questioningly.

"No," Peter repeated. "Bucky and I made breakfast together. He's teaching me to make waffles— he says they're his favourite."

"We have a waffle maker?"

Peter raised his shoulders in a shrug. "You _have_ to come eat. We worked really hard on it," he whined, pouting.

A quiet knock on the door halted Steve from replying. Without prompt from either Steve or Peter for Bucky to enter, the door pushed open gently.

"Heard you both having fun without me," Bucky said, teasing lightly, his half smile smile bright.

Steve stared wordlessly at him. Leaning casually against the doorframe, hair worn down and brushing his shoulders, reminded Steve of a moment long past.  
Two days after they had first escaped that hell-hole of a house, they managed to secure themselves a room in a dingy motel— not that it had been too hard.

"Want to celebrate our first night of freedom? The first night of the rest of our lives?" Bucky asked with a wicked grin, a glint in his eyes, hands holding a bouquet of flowers behind his back.

It _had_ been the first night of the rest of their lives, just not as Bucky had meant it. Or as they both had expected.

"— tell him," Peter said, jabbing Steve in the arm hard enough to drag him from his memories. Of what he must be told, Steve didn't know— he had caught only the tail-end of the sentence.

He looked at Bucky— the Bucky standing before him, living and breathing— and saw him as a flickering image as he'd been over the many years. Fondly, he remembered that special night all those lifetimes ago. Back then, Bucky had just begun growing out his hair; the flannel he wore today, though, was exactly the same.

"Tell him what?" Bucky asked, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning at Peter.

Fatherhood did become him, Steve cherished the thought. Finding no need to censor his thoughts as he censored his words.

"You know," Peter exhaled a loud, dramatic sigh, slumping back against his father. He looked up at Steve and said, in an aside, "No wonder he's your best friend. You're both so hopeless."

"Okay, little dude," Steve began, failing as he tried to sound stern, "I don't know what's got into you lately, but I don't think I appreciate the attitude."

He looped an arm around Peter, catching him around the middle and holding him in place.

"Bucky doesn't mind," Peter argued, pointing at the wide grin Bucky sported.

"Woah! Woah!" He raised his hands in front of him, a half-hearted surrender. "Bucky is innocent. He doesn't want to be a part of any of this. Come and eat breakfast." The last sentence he called over his shoulder as he walked away and down the passage.

Steve shooed Peter out ahead of him and out from his room, only able to get the boy to listen once he stepped out of bed and followed near behind. Peter, whining, complaining, when Steve detoured to visit the bathroom.

 

Steve leaned against the counter, drying the dishes Bucky washed. They worked efficiently; weeks of living together again brought forth the years they'd spent systematically working together.

Bucky hummed under his breath as he worked. Steve couldn't remember him ever doing that before, idly singing, breathing a tune as he busied himself. It seemed so mundane, so simply indulgent.

A splash of water landed on his cheek, on the side of his face. Steve shot a vicious glare at Bucky. "Don't you start, Bucky. I will end you," he said hotly, wiping the water away with the dishcloth.

Bucky's look was questioning. "Did you even hear a word I said?"

Steve raised his shoulders in a shrug.

"I _always_ tell you you need more sleep," Bucky grumbled. Satisfied with his _I told you so,_ he turned away from the sink and wiped his hands on his pants.

Mouth downturned, Steve rolled his eyes. Ready and waiting for Bucky to continue, he waved his hands in front of him, urging Bucky on.

"All I said was, I think we should all go out today. Maybe take Peter out for a picnic, or go to the zoo."

"Not the zoo," Steve vetoed rigidly. "I'm not interested in caged animals and using them for entertainment."

"So... A picnic?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

Steve beamed and said, nodding his head, "Yes. That would be great. The flowers are out. It's nice and warm. It'll be fun. Well, as long as you make lunch."

"Sure, Stevie," Bucky agreed, as Steve knew he would.

They had become strangely domestic, Steve realized as he watched Bucky return to the washing up. He wasn't sure when exactly it happened, when they'd fallen into being somewhat of a family. Whenever it had, Steve was eternally grateful he'd gotten over his initial discomfort.   
He had forgotten how simply blissful domestic partnerships could be. Hadn't realized he missed it until Bucky slipped back into his life, bringing with him the exact relationship Steve needed.

Unhurriedly, they each got ready— lazily, without any rush; the park wasn't going anywhere and, hopefully, neither was the clear skies and calm weather.

An hour and a half after Bucky proposed the idea to Steve— an hour after proposing the same idea to Peter and falling victim to the assault of his quiet excitement— the three of them jumped into Steve's truck. Peter quietly claimed the front passenger seat, Bucky slid into the backseat with a, "You're sitting there illegally, just so you know," directed at Peter.

Steve laughed as he reversed from the driveway, lightly admonishing Bucky for fighting with a child over shotgun.

The park they headed to, Steve didn't know if it were even named, stood a mere ten minutes drive from home. Though so nearby, between work and writing and Peter, an opportunity to visit it rarely presented itself so grandly.

Bucky carried the handwoven wicker basket, with the insistence Steve shouldn't have to do anything, and lead them down one of many rocky lanes, past couples and dog walkers and fitness fanatics, to the shade of a large tree.

"I noticed it awhile ago," Bucky said, speaking unprompted as he lay out the dark blue sheet. "I'd come here, see this on one of my walks, and think about how nice it would be to spend the day here."

The spot wasn't incredible secluded, more aside than a place of utter privacy. Yet it existed in a strange pocket of silence, a bubble of peacefulness which muffled the noise of the rest of the park.

"It's beautiful," Steve said.

He lounged in the grass with his legs stretched ahead of him, keeping a keen eye on Peter who had temporarily deserted his latest book to look at the flowers growing in the bushes alongside their picnic site.

"It is," Bucky agreed, taking a seat across from Steve, on the sheet. "And... Listen." Bucky added on with a smile, cocking his head to the side.

Wind whistled through the canopy of overhanging leaves. Rustled the leaves, in the midst of a many stepped dance.   
Steve loved the sound of wind in the trees, between the leaves. Had, ever since he was a child.

The gesture was thoughtful. In any other moment, any other time, Steve would have reached out and threaded their fingers together. An idle show of gratitude.

"This is kinda like a date, isn't it?" Bucky asked quietly.

Steve shook his head slowly from side to side, huffed out a laugh. "I think it requires less children and more _consent_ for a date for it to be a date."

Bucky seemed about to say something, remained quiet— thought better of saying whatever it was— as Peter flopped beside him on the spread out cloth.

"Look what I got," Peter said, holding out loosely clasped hands and showing the men the flowers he had picked. Each of were slightly imperfect— some missing petals, some fading, some thread with brown— but were beautiful nonetheless. "I didn't pick them, or break them from the stem, or anything. I found them all on the ground."

"They're real pretty," Steve said, gently lifting one of the larger flowers, a pale yellow, and twirling in slow arcs.

He sniffed at the flower experimentally, scrunched up his nose; it wouldn't be winning any awards for fragrance any time soon.

"Do you know what any of these are called, Dad?" Peter asked.

"No idea," Steve said, "I only actually know roses, violets, lilies. Sunflowers. Oh, and hibiscus. Any ideas, Bucky?"

The man shrugged, as if the names of flowers were the last concern to plague his mind. He raised a light pink flower to the sun and frowned. "None at all. However—" Bucky paused, sat in front of Steve on his knees, tucked the flower in Steve's hair, behind his left ear, "I do know they look lovely on you."

Steve met Bucky's solid gaze, stared deep into the metal grey eyes as they stared into frost blue. He saw the familiar sparkle in the man's eyes, the part of his lips, and knew Bucky wanted to kiss him. For a second, a split second, he thought he wanted the same.

Clumsy fingers worked a smaller flower into Steve's hair, Peter hushed as was his nature. Successfully breaking the spell with the mere reminder of his presence.

The light in Bucky's eyes dimmed, a frown turned his mouth for a blinks length. Unlike him, Steve was grateful.

"You look beautiful," Peter stated plainly, smiling and inching back to admire his handiwork.

"Thanks, Pete-pie, so do you."

Peter grinned widely and happily at the comment.

"Okay, can we _please_ eat now?" he asked, attention diverted.

"You both go ahead. I'm still a bit full from breakfast." Steve patted his stomach. He crossed his legs and nodded at Peter and Bucky to go on without him.

Eyes closed, he rested his weight on his arms stretched behind him, tilted his head back and soaked in the weak rays of sunlight he waited months to feel. He loved the coldness of Winter, the certain freshness it brought with it to the world. But, to Steve, nothing compared to the warmth of the sun against his skin.

Weight pressed against his crossed legs, followed by the heat of a body.

He slipped an eye open and allowed himself to look at Bucky. To just take him in; covered in a fitted burgundy sweater, his hair falling over his back and past his shoulders.

"There's no way a giant lizard would beat an army of robot," Bucky argued with Peter, munching on an egg salad sandwich. They were in the middle of an argument Steve hadn't paid any attention to.

"You're ridiculous, Bucky. The lizard has regeneration powers."

Steve listened with only half an ear, amusement tugged his lips into a smile as he tugged the thick brown hair hanging over his lap. Gentle, as he threaded his fingers through hair, running through the small knots.

Appreciatively, Bucky hummed as Steve ran his fingers through over his scalp.

He remembered, clear as rain on a windowpane, long nights passing with Bucky biting into whatever he could— his hands; his clothes; Steve's shoulder, more often than not— as he attempted to hush his body-wracking sobs. Remembered nights, too, of stony, broken silence when sleep refused to come.   
On any of those nights, curled together in one of their beds, or cramped on the floor in the corner of the room, the fluid motions of his hand running through the boy's short brown hair was the only thing to get Bucky to sleep.

Of course Steve remembered. He would always remember.

"The lizard could have lizard friends, too," Steve cleared his throat and added, more for the sake of distraction than anything else. He refused to ruin this day by breaking down.

Years had passed since he last braided hair. When he and Bucky were younger, every morning before school and every evening before bed, one of their duties was to untangle and plait the hair of the younger girls.

It was engraved in him now; more muscle memory, more automatic function than conscious thought and decision.

He picked from the pile of flowers beside him and began carefully placing the broken beauties in the French braid.

"You should wear your hair like this more," Peter piped up.

"He's right," Steve agreed, whispered into Bucky's ear.

The silken smile Bucky shot him over his shoulder was reminiscent of another time. It took Steve back to a prison-like house, to a musty motel room.

The smile was exactly the same. Steve realized he'd never stopped thinking about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out (or send me a birthday gift), you can find me on Tumblr at [aycebasketcase](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aycebasketcase)


	9. A Million Lives

"Don't you draw anymore?" Bucky asked. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the striped brown rug, notebooks fanned around him.

Steve shrugged. "Sam said to wear anything with red or gold. Do you have anything with red or gold? Do _I_ have anything with red or gold? He said blue's fine, too."

Sam was the kind of old friend that Steve couldn't imagine his life without. They met in college and were all but inseparable. Bound to each other, until Sam married an actual African king and moved across the world to Wakanda.  
Steve had been his best man, almost cried and everything.

When he had looked over at Sam and T'challa, had seen the way they looked at each other, Steve knew he would give up everything if it meant his best friend could have that for the rest of his life.

Even with all the glamour that came with living in a kingdom, Sam and T'challa made a point to travel every few months. It was a good two years since they stayed longer than a week anywhere in the States.

They had a son, Kingston, who was the same age as Peter. The boys birthdays were only a few months apart, with Peter's being later on in August.

"Thirteenth birthday, man," Sam told Steve over Skype, a conversation that was the first after months and lasted only about three minutes. "It's an important one, and he's spent all the other's in Wakanda. It'd be nice for him to see what a lack of culture looks like."

In classic Sam style, the family was hosting a _themed_ thirteenth birthday. Steve was just glad he didn't have to do more than wear a specific coloured shirt. _Unlike_ — Steve groaned just thinking about it— Sam's thirtieth birthday; he still cringed every time he saw a candycane costume.

"I'll find something." Bucky thumbed through the first few pages of a tattered blue spiral. "You didn't answer."

Steve tugged on the sleeve of a dark blue shirt. He was quiet before he said, "Not really much of a chance, right?" The material was soft between his fingers, he could wear it to Kingston's birthday. Peter had a similar shirt hanging in the back of his closet, if it still fit they could go as a matching pair. Hell, put Bucky in a blue shirt and they could be a perfect trio. On the tail-end of a sigh he said, "It's been a rush, these past few years. And," he gestured over his shoulder to the books surrounding Bucky, "I've been busy."

Pages ruffled behind him, followed by the thud of a book shutting.

A silent Bucky— as grateful as Steve was for the momentary quiet— was an unnerving Bucky. He always had something to say. Red-eyed and falling over from exhaustion after a long day of school and work, or in the kind of pain he couldn't put into words, Bucky always had something to say.

Steve nudged aside the blue shirt. Glancing at the next one, a dull grey sweater he was sure he threw away, he frowned.

"You're good," Bucky said softly, "Your writing, I mean. It's good. It's _really_ good."

Steve bit on the inside of his lip, biting back the smile overtaking his face. Kind of embarrassing, how the compliment— the simple compliment, the few words— settled Steve.

Bucky was biased, anyway. With a quickness, Steve pushed away the bitter, niggling thought. _Let me be happy for two seconds, please._

He exhaled, hummed under his breath. "When was the last time you even read a book?"

"That... Is none of your business," Bucky grumbled. "Doesn't mean I can't recognize something good when I see it." Bucky turned a page and, in a voice so low Steve wouldn't have heard him if the house weren't so quiet, said, "And I see you, Steve. I always see you."

Running a finger along the edge of the cupboard door, Steve swallowed. For a brief moment, his eyes slipped close and he was all intakes of breath and the grainy wood underneath his fingertip.

A warm hand curled around his. When Bucky moved he moved with a practiced silence. Had he always moved like that, steps so light you couldn't even hear him? Steps so light that he came up behind Steve without Steve even knowing he had stood?

"You're gonna hurt yourself," Bucky admonished lightly , tugging Steve's hand away from the door.

"Jesus, Bucky." Steve edged away, closing the doors with a low chuckle. "Nobody's ever died from a splinter."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to be the first."

"Look. I've gotta fetch Peter from school," Steve said, gesturing at his slim wristwatch— the five classes who raised the most by Thursday left at twelve on Friday, the school held the fundraising program every year, for a month . He grabbed a worn denim jacket hanging on the door and slipped into it. "We'll be going to the mall, after. To look for a present for Kingston. You should come with."

"Yeah," Bucky said with a nod, "I need a new shirt anyway. T'challa has a brother, right?"

Steve knitted his eyebrows together, his frown small and sweet. He could count only a handful of times when Bucky had 'met' T'challa and Sam over Skype— once in the studio when Bucky had stopped by to surprise Steve with lunch, once when Peter had incessantly worried Steve to hand the tablet over. _Oh—_

"Erik?" Steve asked, brow creasing a bit in confusion, "That's his cousin."

"Nice." His sharp grin cutting across his face wickedly.

"James Buchanan Barnes, I swear. I swear if you're thinking what I think you're thinking."

"What? I'm almost thirty-five years-old. And I'm not exactly spoken for, am I?"

"No." Steve shook his head. "I guess you're not."

 

"Wade got the new _Incredibles_ movies. He said I can go over and watch it sometime," Peter said, buckled into the front seat and head in his backpack.

Steve turned into the mall parking lot. "Didn't that movie just come out?" he asked noncommittally, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he waited for the car in front of him to move.

"His cousin downloaded it for him. Or something." Peter shrugged. He pulled a crumpled ball of paper from the bottom of his bag. "His mom's number," Peter said, in way of explanation when he held the paper out to Steve.

Steve gave the page a brief glance before crumpling it even more and stuffing it into his jeans pocket.

He didn't really know Wade or Wade's family, but he had stood up for Peter when Peter had been having trouble at school and that already won him over to Steve's good books. Wade had spent one or two afternoons with Peter, Harry and MJ, working on assignments together— well, doing more running around and talking then actually working.

A good kid, basically.

"We could  just take you to watch it," Bucky piped up from the back, "You know, _legally._ You can gather all your little friends and make a fun day out of it."

Steve met Bucky's gaze in the rear view mirror and glared. Bucky only smiled back.

"That could be fun," Steve said. He parked the car and looked over at Peter. "Don't you think that could be fun, Pete?"

"Yeah— Yes," he answered with a nod, "We could get those large popcorns and extra large slushies, and we can watch it in 3D. Can we, Dad?"

Steve laughed under his breath. "Of course, bud. We'll make an affair out of it."

"You're welcome," Bucky voiced, sounding smug.

They jumped out from the truck and, ignoring the quiet grumbling from his son, Steve bundled Peter into a thick jacket.

Peter attached to his left and chattering a mile a minute, Bucky on his other side and leaning slightly into him, Steve herded the three of them into the mall.

Kingston wasn't a difficult child to shop for. Steve had spent a lot of time with Sam's family to make present shopping easier.

In a small craft shop buried in a corner between a jeweller and a bookstore, after wandering from one store filled with mass-produced objects to the next, Peter raised his voice excitedly and called to Steve and Bucky.   
It was a statuette of a man, rising from a base which fit comfortably in Peter’s palm and carved with maddening intricacy. He was an ebony angel, with his feathery wings stretching from his back and into the air around him.

"They have a whole set," Peter said, tugging on Steve's hand. He lead them down an aisle filled with delicate items and took them to a shelf in the back of the shop. Over two dozen angelic statuettes stood, each different from the one before, and wood so dark it gleamed.

____

Afterwards, Peter fiddling with the dial on the radio and jumping from station to station, Steve dropped Peter off at Harry's house for the rest of the day. He kissed him on the forehead and waved him goodbye with a promise to fetch him before eight that evening.

The raggedy couch cushions welcomed Steve. He fell into the sofa with a loud exhaled breath.

"You gonna help me, Rogers, or you just gonna sit there looking pretty?" Bucky asked, dropping the grocery bags on the kitchen counter.

Steve stretched his arms high. He yawned loudly and sank deeper into the couch. "Looking pretty has got me this far."

"You're a real piece of work," Bucky said. His chuckle was low.

From the kitchen Steve could hear the sound of ruffling packets and doors opening and closing, Bucky unpacking the few groceries they bought.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back— knots tightened in his shoulders, his body ached.

"Hey," Bucky muttered. His hand rested lightly on the curve of Steve's shoulder. "You okay?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah. Really tired, y'know?"

"I know," Bucky said, and he slotted himself into the space between Steve and the couch's arm.

Bucky pressed his forehead into the exposed skin peeking out from the neck of his T-shirt.

Hands— so rough, so gentle— kneaded slow circles into Steve's shoulders.

Another loud sigh escaped from Steve's lungs, the familiar feeling of Bucky's skin against his own enough to relieve the tension he held in his body.

"Yeah," Bucky whispered, "I know."

His mind was a traitor. He thought about Bucky pressing his lips into Steve's skin. Pictured Bucky slipping his hands from the line of Steve's shoulders and resting at his hips.

And, in the same moment, Steve remembered how he had turned on Bucky— bore into him with a glare of both crystalline fear and unsettling fury. Brow furrowed, he had muttered, "I'm staying, Buck. 'Til the end—"

"I know," Bucky had interrupted. His face breaking into a dazzling smile— part mirrored fear, part depthless love. His hand around Steve's tightened, the other clasped around the curve of Steve's neck. "You're worrying about nothing. Stevie, listen to me. Ssh. Listen to me. I'll see you soon. But you can't be here. You _have_ to go."

That smile— that brilliant _Goddamn_ smile rucking up the side of his face into soft creases— burned itself into Steve's mind. Tinged with something he couldn't name; Steve felt it as a promise.

"What are you thinking?" Bucky asked.

Steve cracked his eye open, taking Bucky in. Bucky smiled at him and it was almost the same smile— just as beautiful, just as dazzling.

"You, actually," Steve answered. He rolled his shoulders back and urged, "Don't stop that. It's good." He shifted. "Sometimes I think about that last night. I'm just... Happy, Buck. I'm happy we're here, like this."

He traced a word into Steve's skin, a word that was all unintelligible squiggles that Steve couldn't make out. "Me too," said Bucky. Steve could here the smile in his voice. "Me, too."

 

Peter and Bucky sat in the lounge, the TV's volume low enough that only a few stray voices, no more than whispers, made it Steve's way.

The tension that Bucky had worked away, his hands like magic, curled in his muscles again. In a poorly-backed chair and hunched over the desk in his office, Steve rubbed at the growing pain in his neck.

Peter's laugh could be heard over the Disney movie Bucky chose, sweetly it drifted to the room.

Terribly, so terribly it stung, Steve wanted to close the thick books  and curl up on the sofa between the two of them. A bowl of popcorn in his lap. But he was an adult, a _business-owning_ adult. He had to check finances, and read emails, and make sure everything was in order for the upcoming week, and check for how much longer the budget would uphold— It was tiring work.

The short _ding_ from his phone alerted Steve to a new text— one of many, unopened and unread— and was a welcome distraction.

From Natasha— _maybe it's time for you to start dating again._ The message was short, straight to the point and without preamble, as was Natasha's way. A link followed the text.   
Steve sighed audibly; it didn't matter how many times he told her he wouldn't start dating again, least of all internet dating, she persisted.

_No. Thank you and fuck you,_ Steve texted back irritably.

Her reply was almost immediate, and Steve was grateful for it. Anything was a good distraction. _Even from this distance I can feel the love,_ Natasha embellished the text with a line of flowers, hearts and heart-eyed smileys.

_So... Bucky?_ she asked, in quick succession of her last text.

_What about Bucky?_ Steve asked, already dreading this line of conversation.

_I saw him._ _I know he's your type._ Quickly followed by, _And you guys have history._

He burned brightly, could feel the rush of red in his neck and ears, unsure of what to say without sounding too defensive.

_Dating,_ she sent with a small emoticon smile. _Think about it._

He thought about hands on his shoulders and a smile that lit up the room.   
He thought about a rough hand holding a much smaller hand, leading Peter across a road or through a store.   
He thought about a deep voice and hair falling into bright eyes.

_I already am._ He texted back, and he left it at that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from the dead, have pulled this fic from its semi-desertion and hope to have another (longer) chapter out soon ♡


	10. The Closest To Heaven That I've Ever Been

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls.
> 
> I haven't written a smut scene in /years/... so, there isn't a smut scene but there is a brief sex scene/prelude to smut scene(?). It's neither too explained nor graphic and is why the rating has remained at T instead of M.

There are things Steve knew and expected. Like that the sun would rise each morning and set each night, and no matter how many years passed the sadness found a way of creeping up on him at the most inopportune of moments, and that Bucky Barnes would be by Steve's sides through almost everything; through, at least, most of the best and the worst parts.

Steve found Bucky balancing on a ladder, helping Sam hang a large banner across one of the walls.

He kept his hair held back in a loose tie. He seemed unweighted in ways which poked at Steve's heart. Joking around with Sam as if they had known each other for years, Bucky's rough laugh came easily. He was at ease.

"You realize it's creepy, right?" Natasha said, piping up from behind Steve. He had not heard her sneak up, did not know for how long she had been standing behind him.

"What?" he asked, turning toward her slightly, arms already crossed over his broad chest.

"This." Natasha gestured, using the cupcake laden platters she held in each hand to point to Steve and beyond him into Sam and T'challa's spacious living room. A second passed and allowed a fleeting thought to pass with it, that Natasha meant Bucky, and his presence, was what was creepy. She craned her neck slightly to look up at Steve, and continued, "You. Watching him like this. It's creepy."

"I'm... Not watching him." Steve shrugged, stumbled on his words. "Just appreciating all of the hard work... the decorations."

Natasha made an almost humming sound, one of knowing disapproval. A smirk danced on her lips. "Sure," she said, met Steve's gaze and pushed past him into the room.

"You gonna give me a hand, Rogers?" Bucky called to him. He smiled at Steve as he jumped down from the ladder. "Or you gonna spend another twenty minutes staring at me."

"You really think a lot of yourself, don't you?" Steve questioned, drily and with an unamused eyebrow raised. He pushed himself into the room. "What do you need me to do?"

Bucky met Steve's eyes and grinned— a crooked grin that creased up the side of his face, ran Steve's blood hot and then ice cold.

*

As a child Steve often found himself wishing. On falling stars, on coins flipped into fountains, on fallen eyelashes and rainbows. On anything he could find.

Steve was many things, but he was not superstitious— he made wishes, but that was all. His mother believed in those things, was raised on superstition and myth, but not Steve... even though Sarah had tried.

When he was eleven, he found a four-leafed clover, tucked in the shade of an overhanging ledge and growing in Mrs Chamack's backyard.

He shouldn't have even been around her home, outside of Pierce's house. If Pierce found out... Steve could hear the angry hitch in his voice, feel the spots of spittle scatter across the side of Steve's face, see his face turn that hideous shade of red.  
But Mrs Chamack was an elderly woman, stuck in a wheelchair that barely worked and in a house devoid of all life beside hers and a cranky parrot. Her son never visited her; her grandchildren were intangible ideas she would not know if they passed her in the street.

With gentle fingers, knuckles scabbing over from where his fist had met the side of Tommy Jones' face— two doors down, six pounds heavier and never knowing when to shut his mouth— and still healing from where the edge of a wooden ruler cracked against his skin three times and split it open, Steve pried the clover from its home among the dandelions. A cluster that had not grown there the month before.

Steve dusted off the clover, slipped it into his shirt pocket with a smile.

Later, hands shaking— hands always shaking, worsening in Winter when the cold got into his lungs and his bones and froze him from the inside out— he unpocketed the clover and showed it to Bucky.  
Pierce asleep, and secure in their small room, he opened his clasped hands and presented the plant like the small gift he intended it to be.

"Found it earlier," Steve had said, staring at the clover before flicking his eyes up to meet Bucky's dark gaze, darker in just the lamplight. He placed the clover in Bucky's unfurled hands, nails clipped fresh. "Thought you'd like it," Steve ended. Smiling at Bucky, turning a pale pink as Bucky smiled back

*

Peter had so few birthday parties, Steve forgot how rowdy a group of twelve-year-olds could be.  
Their noise filtered out from the house, into the night surrounding it, breaking into the suburban quiet.

One by one, and after one another, parents left slowly. They clasped their gift bags loosely and chattered among themselves, grateful for an entire night off; more than prepared for Sam and T'challa to keep their children entertained until the next afternoon.

Steve and Bucky were the only two still there who did not intend to stay the night.

Steve set his head back against the wall, leaned against it and let it support his weight. His mind was in mayhem. The cause of his troubles was the person who, for the entirety of his life, was always the cause of his sweetest troubles.

He ran his hands over his face, scrubbed at the skin, eyed the remnants of the afternoon's piñata— forgotten contents spewing from its broken stomach— and sighed.  
It was a tired sigh, an exhausted and confused sigh.

He _had_ Bucky, everyday and within arm's reach. And God, he _wanted_ Bucky, maybe not in the all-consuming way of their youthful affair. Maybe not in the way of wildfires devouring forests or burning into the night, not as mindlessly passionate, but just as powerful.

The Bucky he knew now, the one who turned up at his door and sometimes yelled in his sleep and never wore a sleeve which didn't cover the length of his left arm was not completely the Bucky he had grown up with, but he was there; singing under his breath and making breakfast for three, sitting in the warm patch of sunlight shining through the kitchen window, cursing over Peter's homework but nonetheless trying to help. That was all Bucky, and it pained Steve to see. Pained him as much as it sickened him; as much as it curled his lips into a smile.

Footsteps sounded from around the corner, heavy and only somewhat familiar. Leaves and pebbles crunching underneath feet dressed in combat boots. _Sam_ , Steve thought instinctively. Yet the sound of the footsteps were even more familiar than his.

Steve downed a mouthful of the chilled cherry soda. It slicked his lips as he sipped, cooled his mouth and his throat as he swallowed.

"Hey, Buck," he greeted, not having to look to know him. Steve would know Bucky anywhere. Blind and senseless, Steve would know Bucky.

Bucky stopped beside him, close enough for Steve to see him without turning his head. He looked nice— better than _nice;_ beautiful. Soft, even. Sometime during the course of the night he had brought his hair into a short plait. In the dark, slightly penetrated by the light from the house and the tall lamps lining the street, Steve could just catch the glint of a black stud in his lobe— his ear pierced days ago and on a whim.

"Don't tell me you're hiding from the children." Bucky said, teasing and lightly mocking. Steve could hear the smile in his voice.

"Honestly?" Steve shrugged. "A little bit."

"Well, it didn't take me long to find you. So, you're not doing a very good job of it."

"I'm not hiding from you, am I?" Steve countered.

"You couldn't hide from me if you tried," Bucky muttered, teeth hooking on his bottom lip for a split second. He shook his head and said, around a laugh, "You're the _worst_ at hiding— Pete and I always find you in, like, seconds. Steve, you're like a big, blond beacon."

"Oh, you noticed," Steve said. "Please, tell me, who exactly made you some kind of expert on all of this? Because it wasn't me. If I remember correctly... _I_ won the last time the three of us played hide-and-seek."

"One game. _One._ Out of hundreds, but 'kay." Bucky threw up his hands in mock defeat. "Fight me all you want. You know I'm right."

A small smile turned up the corners of Steve's mouth, with narrowed eyes he looked at Bucky. For the night, Bucky had foregone his usual black and had worn a pale blue sweater, colour matching the blue of the shirts Steve and Peter wore.

Not thinking about it, and without hesitation, Steve reached out and ran a finger slowly down Bucky's front. "It's soft," he whispered absently.

"I found you something, I almost forgot," Bucky said.

People saw Bucky— his thick, calloused fingers, his roughened hands— and didn't believe how gentle he could be. In that moment, he was that gentle, his deft fingers placing a clover, four-leaved and plucked from its stem, into the breast pocket of Steve's powder blue shirt.

"Thought you could use the luck."

Steve ran his tongue over his bottom lip, held himself still at the feel of Bucky's touch. A touch which was gone much too soon.

His mouth drew into a tight frown, he fingered the clover lightly with his free hand. "I thought you forgot about that," Steve murmured, voice barely audible to his own ears.

"How could I forget?" Bucky whispered, hearing Steve anyway.

The wind rustled the leaves on the trees, sang with the chirps of the few birds still haunting the area.

For the first time, Steve realized how alone they were. Isolated from the party and the company of parents and children, the stars and sky as their only companion and witness.

And when Bucky cupped his hand on Steve's cheeks, caressed his face lightly, Steve could have melted into the gentleness of that touch. Steve could have cried at how much like home it felt.  
God, he hadn't even known how lonely, how touch-starved, how empty he was from all these years without anyone.

"Bucky—" he breathed out the name like it was a blessing.

In the darkness, Steve backlit by the light fighting through the curtains shrouding the house's windows, veiled eyes met. Dark grey to dark blue.

They had been on the edge of something for weeks. They had been on the edge of something for years, their entire goddamn lives.

Steve closed his hand around Bucky's wrist, pressed his thumb into the skin and felt the beat of Bucky's pulse.

Bucky dusted his thumb across the corner of Steve's mouth. "Can I kiss you?" he asked, voice low and standing close enough that his breath easily ghosted over Steve's face. Easily tickled his skin.

Steve nodded, exhaled a breathy laugh. "You never have to ask. You never asked before."

"A lots changed since then," he said quietly. "I just want to be sure." His eyes burned with passion and a depthless caring that overwhelmed and unsettled Steve in the best way.

He tilted his head forward, ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "Yeah, Bucky, you can kiss me."

Warm lips landed on his cheek. Heat crept across his neck and his face, Steve knew he was most likely flushed a brilliant crimson. He dropped his hand from Bucky's wrist to the line of Bucky's waist, closed his eyes and leaned forward into him.

Bucky framed Steve's face between his hands. "Wow," he sighed.

His lips were a gentle pressure against Steve's, not demanding anything of Steve, not asking anything of Steve that Steve wouldn't be more than willing to give. Steve tightened his one-handed hold on Bucky, pushed the tips of his fingers into the other man's side, and kissed him back as slowly and as passionately.

"Buck," Steve pulled back to say. The space between the two of them was basically non-existent. He dropped his head against Bucky's chest, planted a kiss to the exposed skin just above his collar. "Let's go home."

  


His hands trembled. Bucky stood so close behind Steve, it was difficult for him to concentrate on anything besides his presence, the burning warmth he radiated.

Bucky attached his lips to the curve of Steve's neck, kissed him gently.

"I can't—," Steve said, voice rising in a soft laugh. He stilled his hands and pushed Bucky away.

"Can't what?" Bucky asked.

The door opened with a muted click and, with Bucky holding on to Steve's hips, Steve stumbled into the house.

"Never mind," Steve twisted round, muttered around another laugh. The door banged shut and Bucky grabbed Steve in a kiss before he could say anything else.

Kissing Bucky was exactly as Steve remembered it to be. Sure they were older, the rub of stubble against skin was harsher and rougher than it had once been, and the moment didn't hold the kind of hushed urgency as it held in either the confines of Pierce's house or a dingy motel room. Times had changed, and they had changed with it; but they were the same.

Bucky had his hands on Steve. He traveled his fingers up the length of Steve's arm, curled them around the curve of Steve's neck as he pulled him infinitely closer.

"Where to now?" hesitantly, Steve pulled himself away from Bucky to ask. He loosened his grip from the front of Bucky's shirt, dropped them to land at Bucky's hips.

Bucky nipped at Steve's neck, hummed against his skin. "Wherever you want to go." Bucky pressed against Steve.

"Okay." Steve laughed. "You could've just said _bedroom,_ I would've listened."

"Oh?" Bucky said, raising his eyebrow and slipping his fingers into the front of Steve's jeans, tugging him forward roughly. "You want me to order you around? Tell you what to do?"

"Shut the fuck up," Steve said.

"Maybe you should make me," Bucky challenged.

Steve barked out a soft laugh. He pulled Bucky into a rough kiss. Bucky's tongue, slipped into Steve's mouth without hesitation, tasted like the icing of the birthday cake he'd eaten. His taste, his smell, was intoxicating.

Tangled together, they stumbled down the short passageway to Steve's room.

"Get outta this," Steve said, tugging at the hem of Bucky's sweater before popping open the buttons on his own shirt.

"Bossy," Bucky chided, but he chuckled and did what he was told.

They shucked their shirts, left them to litter the fall and mark a crooked trail along with their kicked-off shoes and toed-off socks.

Steve traveled his eyes over Bucky's exposed torso. The first time he had seen it in years, and he couldn't stop his eyes from widening at the sight or his hands from reaching out to splay across Bucky's defined pecs.

Bucky hooked a finger underneath Steve's chin, nudged his head up. "You're drooling," he said with a grin.

"You're gorgeous," Steve countered.

"Even the arm?" Bucky asked.

A treasury of jagged scars covered his left arm— wounds and burns and cuts, healed over. Scars, some half-heartedly hidden by exquisite tattoos. Bucky was so conscious of keeping the arm hidden from view, it was the first time Steve had laid eyes on it. Maybe Bucky expected him to cringe at its sight, to flinch. He didn't. Why would he?

Steve touched a hand to Bucky's upperarm. "Even the arm." He just had to turn his head a bit to the left to drop his head and place a kiss to the curve of Bucky's shoulder, where some of the worst of the scarring was.

The backs of his calves hit against the end of the bed. Steve gripped onto Bucky, held him close and fell backward with him. Limbs entangled, twisted in each other, laughing together, they landed.

Bucky braced himself over Steve, stared into Steve's eyes and licked his bottom lip. Locks of his hair had come loose from his plait, fell in soft tangles around his face and touched against Steve, brushed against his forehead.  
Steve mimicked the action. He missed this feeling, this view. Having Bucky over him, caging him in as if he didn't trust Steve to stay in place; seeing the black of his pupils overtake the metallic grey of his irises, as they dilated; seeing the muted bedside lamplight paint Bucky in shades of pale orange.

He traced a finger over the arch of Bucky's brow.

"What are you doing?" Bucky asked, a grin creasing his face.

"I meant what I said," Steve said, "You're gorgeous." He bit the inside of his cheek to stop the smile threatening to split his face at the soft choking sound Bucky made. Wordlessly, Bucky pressed a kiss into the palm of Steve's lingering hand.

"You, too," Bucky said, and he trailed a finger down Steve's jaw, his neck. "You're a fucking work of art."

Lowering himself from balancing on his hands, Bucky didn't give Steve a chance to answer. Swiftly, he grabbed Steve's lips in a quick and powerful kiss.

"You really want to do this?" Bucky asked.

"Of course, Buck," Steve said with a nod. He fiddled with a strand of Bucky's hair, tucked it behind Bucky's ear. "Do _you_?"

"Of course."

"There's lube in the drawer," Steve said, gesturing to the beside table with his head. "Condoms, too, I think."

Bucky grinned wickedly. "Exactly _how_ long has it been since you've last had sex?" Bucky asked, tone lilting musically as he teased.

"Not long... Five, six months. Maybe more. Why?"

"You just seem a _bit_ impatient." Bucky stopped Steve from arguing back with a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I like it, though. You wouldn't be Steve Rogers if you weren't impatient. Or complaining."

"Ha ha," he deadpanned, "You're hilarious. Now, are you going to _do something_?"

"See," Bucky said with a pointed eyebrow. "Impatient and complaining."

He licked a stripe up the curve of Steve's neck. He planted a sweet trail of kisses down Steve's torso, allowed his tongue to dip in the spaces between Steve's abs.

  


The clock ticked, in the house's silence the sound could be heard clearly. It found its way under the beat of Steve's heart, thudding deafeningly loud in his ears, and made itself heard over the sound of Steve and Bucky's heavy breathing.

"I'm gonna think of you every time I hear that damn clock," Steve said.

"Good," Bucky said, a smirk on his lips. He lay on his back, as close to Steve as he could possibly get. With his head pillowed on Steve's arm, it was easy for him to turn his head, to look up at Steve and kiss him.

Afterwards, too tired for anything more than making out and running on too much energy to actually fall asleep, they watched the sky through the parted curtains.   
They laughed and kissed, and touched each other as much as possible without really moving, as they waited for the sun to rise.

Steve wanted to live in the moment. He wanted to remember every single detail, to box it up and be able to open it and relive it whenever he wanted to.

The tips of Bucky's fingers brushed over his bare skin, innocently against his nipple and, God, he wanted to remember that, too.

"I want this," Steve began, softly. He stared out the window, at the eruption of colour in the sky. He knew what he wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come to him. He let out a slow breath, forced himself to try. "All of this. You and me, Buck. And Peter."

"Are you asking me to stay?"

"I'm saying that I'm not going to stop you from leaving, if that's what you want, and _only_ if that's what you want. I'm saying that I'm probably the only person in the world who can sleep through your snores. I'm saying that I want you to stay and that Pete wants you to stay." He nibbled on his bottom lip, sighed. "We could do it, you know? Finally be a family."

Bucky was silent, exhaling quietly. He pressed his fingers lightly into Steve's skin. "Listen to me, Stevie, I'm not going anywhere. Not even if you paid me."

____

  


Steve woke to afternoon sun in his eyes. Stirring from the depths of sleep, he felt the absence beside him before he registered it.

Around a yawn, Steve called out for Bucky. The silence was deafening, his voice might as well have echoed back to his own ears. "Bucky?" he called again.

No answer. He stretcher and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, slipped from the bed and into a pair of discarded briefs.

"Buck?" Dread curled up his spine, settled at the base of his neck, choked him. Worsened only when he spotted the paper, folded in a neat rectangle and buried under Bucky's pillow.

Weak-kneed, Steve sat back down on the bed. He ran a finger against the paper's edges, poked at the folded corner.

The letter wasn't signed. It didn't need to be. Who else would Bucky be writing to?

_I know what it looks like. Us doing what we did last night and me running out on you. Just like old times, right? That's not fair, not on either of us._ _I don't know where to begin..._

_Do you remember when we ran away that last time? Of course you do— I see you remembering it when you look at me, that glint in your eye that you never could hide and that sad little smile I don't think you know you're doing._

_It was awful. You remember? The motel room was so small and smelled like week old ramen but it didn't even matter. I couldn't give a goddamn fuck about that because you were there. You smelled like coffee and cheap aftershave and like God himself filled our room with the sweetest fragrance. And the way the sun leaked through the_ _dirt-streaked_ _window and kissed your skin._

_I think of that all the time, every time I look at you. And that's how else I know that you think of it too._

_I remember how perfect it felt. For three nights I fell asleep beside you and didn't have to worry about sneaking over to my bed before Pierce found us. For three days, for three fucking glorious days, I woke up with you curled beside me, your body tangled with mine like that python they showed us at the zoo once._  
_I could kiss you when I wanted. Could just hold your hand without having to worry about him walking in._

_For three days I could picture our future. You and me, in a house a lot like this one, with a kid a lot like Peter. I could see_ _it, I could fucking taste it._

_I wanted that, Steve. I still want that. I've wanted that for so long._  
_Coming back to you made it seem like_ maybe _we could finally have all that again. Then last night... Steve, I want to live forever in last night. And, just. I want to spend every morning waking up next to you._ _I want to spend every day with the taste of you on my tongue, the scent of you in my nose._

_But things happened, after everything went to shit a lot of terrible things happened. We never talked about it, but Pierce was so angry that you got away and he took out all his anger on me and the kids. It was bad and then it was awful, but it didn't last for a very long time, and it didn't kill any of us._  
_I'm a mess. I can see you frowning as you read that and I want to just kiss that frown away. It's true, though— I'm a mess, you know it, I know it. It's fine._

_I know you don't keep up with Pierce anymore, but I do. He's been out for about a month now. It's cancer; doctor's don't think he has very long to live. Three more months maybe. Less, maybe._

_I need to be the best man I can be, Steve. For you, and for Peter. And I can't be the man you need if I'm carrying around all this pain and this anger._  
_So, I'm going to see him. I've spent years trying to forgive him and I think if I see him this last time I can finally get some closure. I can finally move on from that chapter in my life._

_I won't tell you what to do, because you won't listen anyways, but I think you should think about seeing him, too._

Steve paused, he could hear the sigh in Bucky's words.

_I don't know when I'll be back, Stevie, so I gotta let you know something._

_I'm grateful._

_I never said it, but you need to know I felt it every time in the last nine years and every time in these last few months._

_I'm so Goddamn grateful for you and Tony, for what you did for a broken, druggie kid all those years ago._  
_Every time I look at Pete I want to run outside and yell praises at the good job you've done, I want to hold him to the sky and let everyone know how amazing he is._

_These last few months, Steve... You and Peter made me feel the most real I've ever felt. You've both made me realize all the things I could have — that we could have. And I want them. So bad._

_That's why I gotta go, Stevie. That's why I gotta do this._

_I never deserved you— not when we were kids, not when we were clumsy teenagers, not now._  
_And, by God, I never deserved Peter. The best thing I ever did for him was leaving him when he was still too young to remember me._

_I don't know when I'll be back, but I_ will _be back. You and me, Steve, we're like a pair of boomerangs._  
_We always find our ways back to each other._  
  
  



End file.
